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STORIES 


OF THE 


SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 


BY 

MARGARET O. W.’ OLIPHANT. 



BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
1900. 


o 


University Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge 

5^3 6 ^') 





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CONTENTS. 


I. a ILittIc 

Page 

In the Unseen 5 

The Little Pilgrim goes up Higher ... 65 

II. ILittle pilgrim : JFurtfjer lEipmenccs. 

The Little Pilgrim in the Seen and the 


Unseen 7 

On the Dark Mountains 46 

The Land of Darkness 93 

/ HI. ©Iti Eafis mars. 

A Story of the Seen and the Unseen. . . 5 


IV. Wi)t 0ptn ISoor, anU tf)e portrait. 


The Open Door 5 

The Portrait 89 





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IN THE UNSEEN. 


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I 




A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


I. 

IN THE UNSEEN. 

S HE had been talking of dying only the even- 
ing before, with a friend, and had described 
her own sensations after a long illness when she 
had been at the point of death. “ I suppose,” 
she said, that I was as nearly gone as any one 
ever was to come back again. There was no 
pain in it, only a sense of sinking down, down 
— through the bed as if nothing could hold me 
or give me support enough — but no pain.” 
And then they had spoken of another friend in 
the same circumstances, who also had come back 
from the very verge, and who described her sen- 
sations as those of one floating upon a summer 
sea without pain or suffering, in a lovely nook of 
the Mediterranean, blue as the sky. These soft 
and soothing images of the passage which all 
men dread had been talked over with low voices, 
yet with smiles and a grateful sense that ^^thei 


6 


A LITl'LE PILGRIM. 


warm precincts of the cheerful day ” were once 
more familiar to both. And very cheerfully she 
went to rest that night, talking of what was to be 
done on the morrow, and fell asleep sweetly in 
her little room, with its shaded light and curtained 
window, and little pictures on the dim walls. All 
was quiet in the house : soft breathing of the 
sleepers, soft murmuring of the spring wind out- 
side, a wintry moon very clear and full in the 
skies, a little town all hushed and quiet, every- 
thing lying defenceless, unconscious, in the safe 
keeping of God. 

How soon she woke no one can tell. She 
woke and lay quite still, half roused, half hushed, 
in that soft languor that attends a happy waking. 
She was happy always, in the peace of a heart 
that was humble and faithful and pure, but yet 
had been used to wake to a consciousness of 
little pains and troubles, such as even to her 
meekness were sometimes hard to bear. But on 
this morning there were none of these. She lay 
in a kind of hush of happiness and ease, not 
caring to make any further movement, lingering 
over the sweet sensation of that waking. She 
had no desire to move nor to break the spell of 
the silence and peace. It was still very early, 
she supposed, and probably it might be hours 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


7 


yet before any one came to call her. It might 
even be that she should sleep again. She had 
no wish to move, she lay at such luxurious ease 
and calm. But by and by, as she came to full 
possession of her waking senses, it appeared to 
her that there was some change in the atmos- 
phere, in the scene. There began to steal into 
the air about her, the soft dawn as of a summer 
morning, the lovely blueness of the first opening 
of daylight before the sun. It could not be the 
light of the moon, which she had seen before she 
went to bed ; and all was so still, that it could 
not be the bustling, wintry day which comes at 
that time of the year late, to find the world awake 
before it. This was different; it was like the 
summer dawn, a soft suffusion of light growing 
every moment. And by and by it occurred to 
her that she was not in the little room where she 
had lain down. There were no dim walls or 
roof, her little pictures were all gone, the curtains 
at her window. The discovery gave her no un- 
easiness in that delightful calm. She lay still to 
think of it all, to wonder, yet undisturbed. It 
half amused her that these things should be 
changed, but did not rouse her yet with any 
shock of alteration. The light grew fuller and 
fuller round, growing into day, clearing her eyes 


8 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


from the sweet mist of the first waking. Then 
she raised herself upon her arm. She was not in 
her room, she was in no scene she knew. In- 
deed it was scarcely a scene at all, nothing but 
light, so soft and lovely, that it soothed and 
caressed her eyes. She thought all at once of a 
summer morning when she was a child, when she 
had woke in the deep night which yet was day, 
early, so early that the birds were scarcely astir, 
and had risen up with a delicious sense of daring 
and of being all alone in the mystery of the sun- 
rise, in the unawakened world which lay at her 
feet to be explored, as if she were Eve just enter- 
ing upon Eden. It was curious how all those 
childish sensations, long forgotten, came back to 
her as she found herself so unexpectedly out of 
her sleep in the open air and light. In the rec- 
ollection of that lovely hour, with a smile at her- 
self, so different as she now knew herself to be, 
she was moved to rise and look a little more 
closely about her, and see where she was. 

When I call her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean 
that she was a child ; on the contrary, she was 
not even young. She was little by nature, with 
as little flesh and blood as was consistent with 
mortal life ; and she was one of those who are 
always little for love. The tongue found diminu- 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


9 


tives for her, the heart kept her in a perpetual 
youth. She was so modest and so gentle, that 
she always came last, so long as there was any one 
whom she could put before her. But this little 
body, and the soul which was not little, and the 
heart which was big and great, had known all the 
round of sorrows that fill a woman’s life, without 
knowing any of its warmer blessings. She had 
nursed the sick, she had entertained the weary, 
she had consoled the dying. She had gone 
about the world, which had no prize or recom- 
pense for her, with a smile. Her little presence 
had been always bright. She was not clever; 
you might have said she had no mind at all ; but 
so wise and right and tender a heart, that it was 
as good as genius. This is to let you know what 
this little Pilgrim had been. 

She rose up, and it was strange how like she 
felt to the child she remembered in that still 
summer morning so many years ago. Her little 
body, which had been worn and racked with 
pain, felt as light and unconscious of itself as 
then. She took her first step forward with the 
same sense of pleasure, yet of awe, suppressed 
delight and daring and wild adventure, yet per- 
fect safety. But then the recollection of the 
little room in which she had fallen asleep came 


lO 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


quickly, strangely over her, confusing her mind. 
“I must be dreaming, I suppose,’’ she said to 
herself, regretfully; for it was all so sweet that 
she wished it to be true. Her movement called 
her attention to herself, and she found that she 
was dressed, not in her night-dress, as she had 
lain down, but in a dress she did not know. She 
paused for a moment to look at it, and won- 
der. She had never seen it before ; she did not 
make out how it was made, or what stuff it was, 
but it fell so pleasantly about her, it was so soft 
and light, that in her confused state she abandoned 
that subject with only an additional sense of pleas- 
ure. And now the atmosphere became more dis- 
tinct to her. She saw that under her feet was a 
greenness as of close velvet turf, both cool and 
warm, cool and soft to touch, but with no damp 
in it, as might have been at that early hour, and 
with flowers showing here and there. She stood 
looking round her, not able to identify the land- 
scape because she was still confused a little, and 
then walked softly on, all the time afraid lest she 
should awake and lose the sweetness of it all, 
and the sense of rest and happiness. She felt so 
light, so airy, as if she could skim across the field 
like any child. It was bliss enough to breathe 
and move, with every organ so free. After more 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


1 1 

than fifty years of hard service in the world, to 
feel like this, even in a dream ! She smiled to 
herself at her own pleasure ; and then once more, 
yet more potently, there came back upon her the 
appearance of her room in which she had fallen 
asleep. How had she got from there to here? 
Had she been carried away in her sleep, or was 
it only a dream, and would she by and by find 
herself between the four dim walls again ? Then 
this shadow of recollection faded away once 
more, and she moved forward, walking in a soft 
rapture over the delicious turf. Presently she 
came to a little mound, upon which she paused 
to look about her. Every moment she saw a 
little farther : blue hills far away, extending in 
long, sweet distance, an indefinite landscape, but 
fair and vast, so that there could be seen no end 
to it, not even the line of the horizon, — save 
at one side, where there seemed to be a great 
shadowy gateway, and something dim beyond. 
She turned from the brightness to look at this, 
and when she had looked for some time, she saw, 
what pleased her still more, though she had been 
so happy before, people coming in. They were 
too far off for her to see clearly, but many came, 
each apart, one figure only at a time. To watch 
them amused her in the delightful leisure of her 


12 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


mind. Who were they? she wondered ; but no 
doubt soon some of them would come this way, 
and she would see. Then suddenly she seemed 
to hear, as if in answer to her question, some one 
say, “ Those who are coming in are the people 
who have died on earth.” “ Died ! ” she said 
to herself aloud, with a wondering sense of the 
inappropriateness of the word which almost came 
the length of laughter. In this sweet air, with 
such a sense of life about, to suggest such an idea 
was almost ludicrous. She was so occupied with 
this, that she did not look round to see who the 
speaker might be. She thought it over, amused, 
but with some new confusion of the mind. Then 
she said, “ Perhaps I have died too,” with a 
laugh to herself at the absurdity of the thought. 

Yes,” said the other voice, echoing that gen- 
tle laugh of hers, “ you have died too.” 

She turned round, and saw another standing 
by her, a woman, younger and fairer, and more 
stately than herself, but of so sweet a counte- 
nance that our little Pilgrim felt no shyness, but 
recognized a friend at once. She was more 
occupied looking at this new face, and feeling 
herself at once so much happier (though she had 
been so happy before) in finding a companion 
who would tell her what everything was, than in 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


13 


considering what these words might mean. But 
just then once more the recollection of the four 
walls, with their little pictures hanging, and the 
window with its curtains drawn, seemed to come 
round her for a moment, so that her whole soul 
was in a confusion. And as this vision slowly 
faded away (though she could not tell which was 
the vision, the darkened room or this lovely light), 
her attention came back to the words at which 
she had laughed, and at which the other had 
laughed as she repeated them. Died ? — was it 
possible that this could be the rneaning of it all ? 

‘‘Died?” she said, looking with wonder in 
her companion’s face, which smiled back to her. 
“ But do you mean — You cannot mean — I 
have never been so well : I am so strong : I have 
no trouble — anywhere : I am full of life.” 

The other nodded her beautiful head with a 
more beautiful smile, and the little Pilgrim burst 
out in a great cry of joy, and said, — 

“Is this all? Is it over? — is it all over? Is 
it possible that this can be all? ” 

“Were you afraid of it? ” the other said. 

There was a little agitation for the moment 
in her heart. She was so glad, so relieved and 
thankful, that it took away her breath. She could 
not get over the wonder of it. 


14 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


“To think one should look forward to it so 
long, and wonder, and be even unhappy trying to 
divine what it will be — and this all ! ” 

“ Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you,” 
said the young woman ; “ you were so tender 
and worn, that he only smiled and took you sleep- 
ing. There are other ways. But it is always 
wonderful to think it is over, as you say.” 

The little Pilgrim could do nothing but talk of 
it, as one does after a very great event. “ Are 
you sure, quite sure, it is so ? ” she said. “ It 
would be dreadful to find it only a dream, to go 
to sleep again, and wake up — there — ” This 
thought troubled her for a moment. The vision 
of the bedchamber came back ; but this time she 
felt it was only a vision. “Were you afraid too?” 
she said, in a low voice. 

“I never thought of it at all,” the beautiful 
stranger said ; “I did not think it would come 
to me. But I was very sorry for the others to 
whom it came, and grudged that they should lose 
the beautiful earth, and life, and all that was so 
sweet.” 

“ My dear ! ” cried the Pilgrim, as if she had 
never died, “ oh, but this is far sweeter ! And the 
heart is so light, and it is^ happiness only to 
breathe. Is it heaven here? It must be heaven.” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 15 

‘‘ I do not know if it is heaven. We have so 
many things to leam. They cannot tell you every- 
thing at once,” said the beautiful lady. “ I have 
seen some of the people I was sorry for, and when 
I told them, we laughed — as you and I laughed 
just now — for pleasure.” 

That makes me think,” said the little Pilgrim ; 
‘‘ if I have died, as you say — which is so strange, 
and me so living — if I have died, they will have 
found it out. The house will be all dark, and 
they will be breaking their hearts. Oh, how could 
I forget them in my selfishness, and be happy ! 
I so light-hearted, while they — ” 

She sat down hastily, and covered her face with 
her hands and wept. The other looked at her 
for a moment, then kissed her for comfort, and 
cried too. The two happy creatures sat there 
weeping together, thinking of those they had left 
behind, with an exquisite grief which was not 
unhappiness, which was sweet with love and 
pity. ’ “ And oh,” said the little Pilgrim, what 
can we do to tell them not to grieve? Cannot 
you send? cannot you speak? cannot one go to 
tell them? ” 

The heavenly stranger shook her head. 

“ It is not well, they all say. Sometimes one 
has been permitted ; but they do not know you,” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


i6 

she said, with a pitiful look in her sweet eyes. 
“ My mother told me that her heart was so sick 
for me, she was allowed to go ; and she went 
and stood by me, and spoke to me, and I 
did not know her. She came back so sad 
and sorry, that they took her at once to our 
Father ; and there, you know, she found 
that it was all well. All is well when you are 
there.” 

Ah,” said the little Pilgrim, “ I have been 
thinking of other things. Of how happy I was, 
and of them ; but never of the Father, — just as 
if I had not died.” 

The other smiled upon her with a wonderful 
smile. 

“ Do you think he will be offended — our Fa- 
ther — as if he were one of us? ” she said. 

And then the little Pilgrim, in her sudden grief 
to have forgotten him, became conscious of a new 
rapture unexplainable in words. She felt his un- 
derstanding to envelop her little spirit with a soft 
and clear penetration, and that nothing she did 
or said could ever be misconceived more. “ Will 
you take me to him?” she said, trembling yet 
glad, clasping her hands. And once again the 
other shook her head. 

“ They will take us both when it is time,” she 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


7 


said : we do not go at our own will. But I 
have seen our Brother — ” 

“Oh, take me to hinv!” the little Pilgrim 
cried. “ Let me see his face ! I have so many 
things to say to him. I want to ask him — 
Oh, take me to where I can see his face ! ” 

And then once again the heavenly lady smiled. 
“ I have seen him,” she said. “ He is always 
about — now here, now there. He will come 
and see you, perhaps when you are not thinking. 
But when he pleases. We do not think here of 
what we will — ” 

The little Pilgrim sat very still, wondering at all 
this. She had thought when a soul left the earth 
that it went at once to God, and thought of 
nothing more, except worship and singing of 
praises. But this was different from her thoughts. 
She sat and pondered and wondered. She was 
baffled at many points. She was not changed, as 
she expected, but so much like herself ; still — 
still perplexed, and feeling herself foolish; not 
understanding ; toiling after a something which 
she could not grasp. The only difference was 
that it was no trouble to her now. She smiled 
at herself and at her dulness, feeling sure that by 
and by she would understand. 

“ And don’t you wonder too ? ” she said to 


i8 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


her companion, which was a speech such as she 
used to make upon the earth, when people thought 
her little remarks disjointed, and did not always 
see the connection of them. But her friend of 
heaven knew what she meant. 

“ I do nothing but wonder,” she said, for it 
is all so natural, hot what we thought.” • 

Is it long since you have been here ? ” the 
Pilgrim said. 

“ I came before you ; but how long or how 
short I cannot tell, for that is not how we count. 
We count only by what happens to us. And 
nothing yet has happened to me, except that I 
have seen our Brother. My mother sees him 
always. That means she has lived here a long 
time, and well — ” 

“ Is it possible to live ill — in heaven? ” The 
little Pilgrim’s eyes grew large, as if they were 
going to have tears in them, and a little shadow 
seemed to come over her. But the other laughed 
softly, and restored all her confidence. 

“ I have told you I do not know if it is heaven 
or not. No one does ill, but some do little, and 
some do much, just as it used to be. Do you 
remember in Dante there was a lazy spirit that 
stayed about the gates and never got farther? 
But perhaps you never read that.” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


19 


“ I was not clever,” said the little Pilgrim, wist- 
fully ; no, I never read it. I wish I had known 
more.” 

Upon which the beautiful lady kissed her again 
to give her courage, and said, — . 

It does not matter at all. It all comes to 
you, whether you have known it or not.” 

“ Then your mother came here long ago ? ” 
said the Pilgrim. ‘‘ Ah, then I shall see my 
mother too.”' 

“ Oh, very soon, as soon as she can come ; but 
there are so many things to do. Sometimes we 
can go and meet those who are coming ; but it is 
not always so. I remember that she had a mes- 
sage. She could not leave her business, you may 
be sure, or she would have been here.” 

^‘Then you know my mother? Oh, and my 
dearest father too ? ” 

We all know each other,” the lady said with 
a smile. 

“ And you ? did you come to meet me — only 
out of kindness, though I do not know you?” 
the little Pilgrim said. 

I am nothing but an idler,” said the beauti- 
ful lady, making acquaintance. I am of little 
use as yet. I was very hard worked before I 
came here, and they think it well that we should 


20 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


sit in the sun and take a little rest, and find things 
out.” 

Then the little Pilgrim sat still and mused, and 
felt in her heart that she had found many things 
out. What she had heard had been wonderful, and 
it was more wonderful still to be sitting here all 
alone, save for this lady, yet so happy and at 
ease. She wanted to sing, she was so happy; 
but remembered that she was old, and had lost 
her voice ; and then remembered again that she 
was no longer old, and perhaps had found it 
again. And then it occurred to her to remem- 
ber how she had learned to sing, and how beau- 
tiful her sister’s voice was, and how heavenly to 
hear her, — which made her remember that this 
dear sister would be weeping, not singing, down 
where she had come from ; and immediately the 
tears stood in her eyes. 

“ Oh,” she said, “ I never thought we should 
cry when we came here. I thought there were 
no tears in heaven.” 

Did you think, then, that we were all turned 
into stone ? ” cried the beautiful lady. It says 
God shall wipe away all tears from our faces, 
which is not like saying there are to be no tears.” 

Upon which the little Pilgrim, glad that it was 
permitted to be sorry, though she was so happy, 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


21 


allowed herself to think upon the place she had 
so lately left. And she seemed to see her little 
room again, with all the pictures hanging as she 
had left them, and the house darkened, and the 
dear faces she knew all sad and troubled, and 
to hear them saying over to each other all the 
little careless words she had said as if they were 
out of the Scriptures, and crying if any one but 
mentioned her name, and putting on crape and 
black dresses, and lamenting as if that which 
had happened was something very terrible. She 
cried at this, and yet felt half inclined to laugh, 
but would not, because it would be disrespectful 
to those she loved. One thing did not occur to 
her, and that was, that they would be carrying 
her body, which she had left behind her, away to 
the grave. She did not think of this, because she 
was not aware of the loss, and felt far too much 
herself to think that there was another part of 
her being buried in the ground. From this she 
was aroused by her companion asking her a 
question. 

“ Have you left many there? ” she said. 

“ No one,” said the little Pilgrim, “ to whom I 
was the first on earth; but they loved me all 
the same; and if I could only, only let them 
know — ” 


22 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


But I left one to whom I was the first on 
earth,” said the other, with tears in her beautiful 
eyes ; “ and oh, how glad I should be to be less 
happy if he might be less sad ! ” 

“ And you cannot go ? you cannot go to him 
and tell him? Oh, I wish,” cried the little 
Pilgrim ; but then she paused, for the wish died 
all away in her heart into a tender love for this 
poor, sorrowful man whom she did not know. 
This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, 
for she knew that all was well, and yet was so 
sorry, and would have willingly given up her 
happiness for his. All this the lady read in her 
eyes or her heart, and loved her for it ; and they 
took hands and were silent together, thinking of 
those they had left, as we upon earth think of 
those who have gone from us, but only with far 
more understanding and far greater love. “ And 
have you never been able to do anything for 
him?” our Pilgrim said. 

•Then the beautiful lady’s face flushed all over 
with the most heavenly warmth and light. Her 
smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun. 

Oh, I will tell you,” she said. There was a 
moment when he was very sad and perplexed, 
not knowing what to think ; there was some- 
thing he could not understand. Nor could I 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


23 


understand, nor did I know what it was, until it 
was said to me, ‘ You may go and tell him.’ And I 
went in the early morning before he was awake, 
and kissed him, and said it in his ear. He woke 
up in a moment, and understood, and everything 
was clear to him. Afterward I heard him say, 
‘ It is true that the night brings counsel. I had 
been troubled and distressed all day long, but in 
the morning it was quite clear to me.’ And the 
other answered, ‘ Your brain was refreshed, and 
that made your judgment clear.’ But they never 
knew it was I ! That was a great delight. The 
dear souls, they are so foolish,” she cried, with 
the sweetest laughter, that ran into tears. “ One 
cries because one is so happy ; it is just a silly 
old habit,” she said. 

“ And you were not grieved — it did not hurt 
you — that he did not know — ” 

Oh, not then, not then ! I did not go to 
him for that. When you have been here a little 
longer, you will see the difference. When you go 
for yourself, out of impatience, because it still 
seems to you that you must know best, and they 
don’t know you, then it strikes to your heart ; 
but when you go to help them, — ah,” she cried, 
when he comes, how much I shall have to tell 
him ! * You thought it was sleep, when it was I ; 


24 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


when you woke so fresh and clear, it was I that 
kissed you ; you thought it your duty to me to 
be sad afterward, and were angry with your- 
self because you had wronged me of the first 
thoughts of your waking — when it was all me, 
all through ! ’ ” 

“I begin to understand,” said the little Pil- 
grim. “But why should they not see us, and 
why should not we tell them ? It would seem so 
natural. If they saw us, it would make them so 
happy and so sure.” 

Upon this the lady shook her head. 

“ The worst of it is not that they are not sure, 
it is the parting. If this makes us sorry here, 
how can they escape the sorrow of it, even if they 
saw us? — for we must be parted. We cannot 
go back to live with them, or why should we have 
died ? And then we must all live our lives, they 
in their way, we in ours. We must not weigh 
them down, but only help them when it is seen 
that there is need for it. All this we shall know 
better by and by.” 

“ You make it so clear, and your face is so 
bright,” said our little Pilgrim gratefully, “you 
must have known a great deal, and understood 
even when you were in the world.” 

“I was as foolish as I could be,” said the 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


25 


Other, with her laugh that was as sweet as music ; 
‘‘ yet thought I knew, and they thought I knew. 
But all that does not matter now.” 

“ I think it matters, for look how much you 
have showed me. But tell me one thing more : 
how was it said to you that you must go and tell 
him? Was it some one who spoke? Was it — ” 

Her face grew so bright that all the past bright- 
ness was as a dull sky to this. It gave out such 
a light of happiness, that the little Pilgrim was 
dazzled. 

“ I was wandering about,” she said, to see 
this new place. My mother had come back be- 
tween two errands she had, and had come to see 
me and tell me everything ; and I was straying 
about, wondering what I was to do, when suddenly 
I saw some one coming along, as it might be 
now — ” 

She paused and looked up, and the little Pil- 
grim looked up too, with her heart beating, but 
there was no one. Then she gave a little sigh, 
and turned and listened again. 

“ I had not been looking for him, or think- 
ing. You know my mind is too light; I am 
pleased with whatever is before me. And I was 
so curious, for my mother had told me many 
things ; when suddenly I caught sight of him 


26 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


passing by. He was going on, and when I saw 
this a panic seized me, lest he should pass and 
say nothing. I do not know what I did. I 
flung myself upon his robe, and got hold of it, — 
or at least I think so. I was in such an agony 
lest he should pass and never notice me. But 
that was my folly. He pass ! As if that could 
be ! ” 

And what did he say to you ? ” cried the little 
Pilgrim, her heart almost aching, it beat so high 
with sympathy and expectation. 

The lady looked at her for a little without say- 
ing anything. 

“ I cannot tell you,” she said, ‘‘ any more than 
I can tell if this is heaven. It is a mystery. When 
you see him you will know. It will be all you 
have ever hoped for, and more besides, for he 
understands everything. He knows what is in 
our hearts about those we have left, and why he 
sent for us before them. There is no need to tell 
him anything ; he knows. He will come when 
it is time ; and after you have seen him you will 
know what to do.” 

Then the beautiful lady turned her eyes toward 
the gate, and while the little Pilgrim was still gaz- 
ing, disappeared from her, and went to comfort 
some other stranger. They were dear friends 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


27 


always, and met often, but not again in the same 
way. 

,When she was thus left alone again, the little 
Pilgrim sat still upon the grassy mound, quite 
tranquil and happy, without wishing to move. 
There was such a sense of well-being in her, that 
she liked to sit there and look about her, and 
breathe the delightful air, like the air of a summer 
morning, without wishing for anything. 

How idle lam!” she said to herself, in the 
very words she had often used before she died ; 
but then she was idle from weakness, and now 
from happiness. She wanted for nothing. To 
be alive was so sweet. There was a great deal to 
think about in what she had heard, but she did 
not even think about that, only resigned herself 
to the delight of sitting there in the sweet air and 
being happy. Many people were coming and 
going, and they all knew her, and smiled upon 
her, and those who were at a distance would 
wave their hands. This did not surprise her at 
all, for though she was a stranger, she too felt 
that she knew them all ; but that they should be 
so kind was a delight to her which words could 
not tell. She sat and mused very sweetly about 
all that had been told her, and wondered whether 


28 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


she too might go sometimes, and with a kiss and 
a whisper clear up something that was dark in 
the mind of some one who loved her. I 
that never was clever ! ” she said to herself, with 
a smile. And chiefly she thought of a friend 
whom she loved, who was often in great per- 
plexity, and did not know how to guide herself 
amid the difficulties of the world. 

The little Pilgrim half laughed with delight, 
and then half cried with longing to go, as the 
beautiful lady had done, and make something 
clear that had been dark before, to this friend. 
As she was thinking what a pleasure it would be, 
some one came up 'to her, crossing over the 
flowery greenness, leaving the path on purpose. 
This was a being younger than the lady who had 
spoken to her before, with flowing hair all crisped 
with touches of sunshine, and a dress all white 
and soft, like the feathers of a white dove. There 
was something in her face different from that of 
the other, by which the little Pilgrim knew some- 
how, without knowing how, that she had come 
here as a child, and grown up in this celestial 
place. She was tall and fair, and came along 
with so musical a motion, as if her foot scarcely 
touched the ground, that she might have had 
wings : and the little Pilgrim indeed was not sure 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


29 


as she watched, whether it might not perhaps be 
an angel ; for she knew that there were angels 
among the blessed people who were coming and 
going about, but had not been able yet to find 
one out. She knew that this new-comer was 
coming to her, and turned towards her with a 
smile and a throb at her heart of expectation. 
But when the heavenly maiden drew nearer, her 
face, though it was so fair, looked to the Pilgrim 
like another face, which she had known very well, 
— indeed, like the homely and troubled face of 
the friend of whom she had been thinking. And 
so she smiled all the more, and held out her 
hands and said, “ I am sure I know you ; ” upon 
which the other kissed her and said, “We all 
know each other ; but I have seen you often be- 
fore you came here,” and knelt down by her, 
among the flowers that were growing, just in front 
of some tall lilies that grew over her, and made 
a lovely canopy over her head. There was some- 
thing in her face that was like a child : her 
mouth so soft, as if it had never spoken any- 
thing but heavenly words, her eyes brown 
and golden, as if they were filled with light. 
She took the little Pilgrim’s hands in hers, and 
held them and smoothed them between her 
own. These hands had been very thin and worn 


30 


A lITTLE PILGRIM. 


before, but now, when the Pilgrim looked at 
them, she saw that they became softer and whiter 
every moment with the touch of this immortal 
youth. 

“ I knew you were coming,” said the maiden ; 
when my mother has wanted me I have seen 
you there. And you were thinking of her now ; 
that was how I found you.” 

“ Do you know, then, what one thinks ? ” said 
the little Pilgrim, with wondering eyes. 

“ It is in the air ; and when it concerns us it 
comes to us like the breeze. But we who are 
the children here, we feel it more quickly than 
you.” 

“ Are you a child? ” said the little Pilgrim, or 
are you an angel? Sometimes you are like a 
child ; but then your face shines, and you are 
like — You must have some name for it here ; 
there is nothing among the words I know.” And 
then she paused a little, still looking at her, and 
cried, ‘‘Oh, if she could but see you, little 
Margaret ! That would do her most good of 
all.” 

Then the maiden Margaret shook her lovely 
head. “ What does her most good is the will of 
the Father,” she said. 

At this the little Pilgrim felt once more that 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


31 


thrill of expectation and awe. “ Oh, child, you 
have seen him? ” she cried. 

And the other smiled. “ Have you forgotten 
who they are that always behold his face ? We 
have never had any fear or trembling. We are 
not angels, and there is no other name ; we are 
the children. There is something given to us 
beyond the others. We have had no other 
home.” 

Oh, tell me, tell me ! ” the little Pilgrim 
cried. 

Upon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft 
cheek against hers, and said, It is a mystery ; 
it cannot be put* into words ; in your time you 
will know.” 

“When you touch me you change me, and I 
grow like you,” the Pilgrim said. “Ah, if she 
could see us together, you and me ! And will 
you go to her soon again? And do you see 
them always, what they are doing ? and take care 
of them? ” 

“ It is our Father who takes cares of them, 
and our Lord who is our Brother. I do his er- 
rands when I am able. Sometimes he will let 
me go, sometimes another, according as it is 
best. Who am I that I should take care of 
them ? I serve them when I may. ” 


32 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


“ But you do not forget them ? ” the Pilgrim 
said, with wistful eyes. 

“We love them always,” said Margaret. She 
was more still than the lady who had first spoken 
with the Pilgrim. Her countenance was full of a 
heavenly calm. It had never known passion nor 
anguish. Sometimes there was in it a far-seeing 
look of vision, sometimes the simplicity of a 
child. “ But what are we in comparison? For 
he loves them more than we do. When he keeps 
us from them, it is for love. We must each live 
our own life.” 

“ But it is hard for them sometimes,” said 
the little Pilgrim, who could ftot withdraw her 
thoughts from those she had left. 

“ They are never forsaken,” said the angel 
maiden. 

“ But oh ! there are worse things than sorrow,” 
the little Pilgrim said ; “ there is wrong, there is 
evil, Margaret. Will not he send you to step in 
before them, to save them from wrong? ” 

“ It is not for us to judge,” said the young 
Margaret, with eyes full of heavenly wisdom ; 
“ our Brother has it all in his hand We do not 
read their hearts, like him. Sometimes you are 
permitted to see the battle — ” 

The little Pilgrim covered her eyes with her 


A LIITLE PILGRIM. 


33 


hands. I could not — I could not ; unless I 
knew they were to win the day ! ” 

“They will win the day in the end. But 
sometimes, when it was being lost, I have seen 
in his face a something — I cannot tell — more 
love than before. Something that seemed to say, 
‘ My child, my child, would that I could do it 
for thee, my child ! ’ ” 

“ Oh ! that is what I have always felt,” cried 
the Pilgrim, clasping her hands ; her eyes were 
dim, her heart for a moment almost forgot its 
blessedness. “ But he could ; oh, little Margaret, 
he could ! You have forgotten, ‘ Lord, if thou 
wilt thou canst — ’ ” 

The child of heaven looked at her mutely, with 
sweet, grave eyes, in which there was much that 
confused her who was a stranger here, and once 
more softly shook her head. 

“Is it that he will not then?” said the other 
with a low voice of awe. “ Our Lord, who died 
— he — ” 

“ Listen ! ” said the other ; “ I hear his step on 
the way.” 

The little Pilgrim rose up from the mound on 
which she was sitting. Her soul was confused 
with wonder and fear. She had thought that 
an angel might step between a soul on earth and 
3 


34 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


sin, and that if one but prayed and prayed, the 
dear Lord would stand between and deliver the 
tempted. She had meant when she saw his 
face to ask him to save. Was not he born, 
did not he live and die, to save ? The angel 
maiden looked at her all the while with eyes that 
understood all her perplexity and her doubt, but 
spoke not. Thus it was that before the Lord 
came to her, the sweetness of her first blessedness 
was obscured, and she found that here too, even 
here, though in a moment she should see him, 
there was need for faith. Young Margaret, who 
had been kneeling by her, rose up too and stood 
among the lilies, waiting, her soft countenance 
shining, her eyes turned towards him who was 
coming. Upon her there was no cloud nor 
doubt. She was one of the children of that land 
familiar with his presence. And in the air there 
was a sound such as those who hear it alone can 
describe, — a sound as of help coming and safety, 
like the sound of a deliverer when one is in 
deadly danger, like the sound of a conqueror, 
like the step of the dearest beloved coming 
home. As it came nearer, the fear melted away 
out of the beating heart of the Pilgrim. Who 
could fear so near him ? Her breath went away 
from her, her heart out of her bosom to meet his 


A UTTLE PILGRIM. 


35 


coming. Oh, never fear could live where he 
was ! Her soul was all confused, but it was with 
hope and joy. She held out her hands in that 
amaze, and dropped upon her knees, not know- 
ing what she did. 

He was going about his Father’s business, not 
lingering, yet neither making haste; and the 
calm and peace which the little. Pilgrim had seen 
in the faces of the blessed were but reflections 
from the majestic gentleness of the countenance to 
which, all quivering with happiness and wonder, 
she lifted up her eyes. Many things there had 
been in her mind to say to him. She wanted 
to ask for those she loved some things which 
perhaps he had overlooked. She wanted to say, 
“ Send me.” It seemed to her that here was the 
occasion she had longed for all her life. Oh, 
how many times had she wished to be able to go 
to him, to fall at his feet, to show him something 
which had been left undone, something which 
perhaps for her asking he would remember to do. 
But when this dream of her life was fulfilled, 
and the little Pilgrim, kneeling, and all shaken 
and trembling with devotion and joy, was at his 
feet, lifting her face to him, seeing him, hearing 
him — then she said nothing to him at all. She 
no longer wanted to say anything, or wanted 


3(5 A LITTLE PILGRIM. 

anything except what he chose, or had power to 
think of anything except that all was well, and 
everything — everything as it should be in his 
hand. It seemed to her that all that she had 
ever hoped for was fulfilled when she met the 
look in his eyes. At first it seemed too bright 
for her to meet ; but next moment she knew it. 
was all that was needed to light up the world, 
and in it everything was clear. Her trembling 
ceased, her little frame grew inspired ; though 
she still knelt, her head rose erect, drawn to him 
like the flower to the sun. She could not tell 
how long it was, nor what was said, nor if it was 
in words. All that she knew was that she told 
him all that ever she had thought, or wished, or 
intended in all her life, although she said nothing 
at all; and that he opened all things to her, 
and showed her that everything was well, and no 
one forgotten; and that the things she would 
have told him of were more near his heart than 
hers, and those to whom she wanted to be sent 
were in his own hand. But whether this passed 
with words or without words, she could not tell. 
Her soul expanded under his eyes like a flower. 
It opened out, it comprehended and felt and 
knew. She smote her hands together in her 
wonder that she could have missed seeing what 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


37 


was so clear, and laughed with a sweet scorn at 
her folly, as two people who love each other laugh 
at the little misunderstanding that has parted 
them. She was bold with him, though she was 
so timid by nature, and ventured to laugh at her- 
self, not to reproach herself ; for his divine eyes 
spoke no blame, but smiled upon her folly too. 
And then he laid a hand upon her head, which 
seemed to fill her with currents of strength and 
joy running through all her veins. And then she 
seemed to come to herself, saying loud out, “ And 
that I will ! and that I will ! ” and lo, she was 
kneeling on the warm, soft sod alone, and hear- 
ing the sound of his footsteps as he went about 
his Father’s business, filling all the air with 
echoes of blessing. And all the people who 
were coming and going smiled upon her, and 
she knew they were all glad for her that she had 
seen him, and got the desire of her heart. Some 
of them waved their hands as they passed, and 
some paused a moment and spoke to her with 
tender congratulations. They seemed to have 
the tears in their eyes for joy, remembering every 
one the first time they had themselves seen him, 
and the joy of it ; so that all about there sounded 
a concord of happy thoughts all echoing to each 
other, “ She has seen the Lord ! ” 


38 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Why did she say, And that I will ! and that 
I will!” with such fervor and delight? She 
could not have told, but yet she knew. The 
first thing was that she had yet to wait and be- 
lieve until all things should be accomplished, 
neither doubting nor fearing, but knowing that 
all should be well ; and the second was that she 
must delay no longer, but rise up and serve the 
Father according to what was given her as her 
reward. When she had recovered a little of 
her rapture, she rose from her knees, and stood 
still for a little, to be sure which way she was to 
go. And she was not aware what guided her, 
but yet turned her face in the appointed way 
without any doubt. For doubt was now gone 
away forever, and that fear that once gave her so 
much trouble lest she might not be doing what 
was best. As she moved along she wondered at 
herself more and more. She felt no longer, as 
at first, like the child she remembered to have 
been, venturing out in the awful lovely stillness 
of the morning before any one was awake ; but 
she felt that to move along was a delight, and 
that her foot scarcely touched the grass. And her 
whole being was instinct with such lightness of 
strength and life, that it did not matter to her 
how far she went, nor what she carried, nor if 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


39 


the way was easy or hard. The way she chose 
was one of those which led to the great gate, and 
many met her coming from thence, with looks 
that were somewhat bewildered, as if they did 
not yet know whither they were going or what 
had happened to them, — upon whom she smiled 
as she passed them with soft looks of tenderness 
and sympathy, knowing what they were feeling, 
but did not stop to explain to them, because she 
had something else that had been given her to 
do. For this is what always follows in that 
country when you meet the Lord, that you in- 
stantly know what it is that he would have you 
do. 

The little Pilgrim thus went on and on toward 
the gate, which she had not seen when she hersell 
came through it, having been lifted in his arms 
by the great Death Angel, and set down softly 
inside, so that she did not know it, or even the 
shadow of it. As she drew nearer, the light be- 
came less bright, though very sweet, like a lovely 
dawn, and she wondered to herself to think that 
she had been here but a moment ago, and yet so 
much had passed since then. And still she was 
not aware what was her errand, but wondered if 
she was to go back by these same gates, and per- 
haps return where she had been. She went up 


40 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


to them very closely, for she was curious to see 
the place through which she had come in her 
sleep, — as a traveller goes back to see the city 
gate, with its bridge and portcullis, through which 
he has passed by night. The gate was very great, 
of a wonderful, curious architecture, having strange, 
delicate arches and canopies above. Some parts 
of them seemed cut very clean and clear; but 
the outlines were all softened with a sort of mist 
and shadow, so that it looked greater and higher 
than it was. The lower part was not one great 
doorway, as the Pilgrim had supposed, but had 
innumerable doors, all separate and very narrow, 
so that but one could pass at a time, though the 
arch inclosed all, and seemed filled with great 
folding gates, in which the smaller doors were 
set, so that if need arose a vast opening might 
be made for many to enter. Of the little doors 
many were shut as the Pilgrim approached ; but 
from moment to moment one after another would 
be pushed softly open from without, and some 
one would come in. The little Pilgrim looked 
at it all with great interest, wondering which of 
the doors she herself had come by; but while 
she stood absorbed by this, a door was suddenly 
pushed open close by her, and some one flung 
forward into the blessed country, falling upon the 


A UTTLE PILGRIM. 


41 


ground, and stretched out wild arms as though to 
clutch the very soil. This sight gave the Pilgrim 
a great surprise ; for it was the first time she had 
heard any sound of pain, or seen any sight of 
trouble, since she entered here. In that moment 
she knew what it was that the dear Lord had 
given her to do. She had no need to pause to 
think, for her heart told her; and she did not 
hesitate, as she might have done in the other life, 
not knowing what to say. She went forward and 
gathered this poor creature into her arms, as if it 
had been a child, and drew her quite within the 
land of peace ; for she had fallen across the 
threshold, so as to hinder any one entering who 
might be coming after her. It was a woman, 
and she had flung herself upon her face, so that 
it was difficult for the little Pilgrim to see what 
manner of person it was ; for though she felt her- 
self strong enough to take up this new-comer in 
her arms and carry her away, .yet she forbore, 
seeing the will of the stranger was not so. For 
some time this woman lay moaning, with now and 
then a great sob shaking her as she lay. The 
little Pilgrim had taken her by both her arms, 
and drawn her head to rest upon her own lap, 
and was still holding the hands, which the poor 
creature had thrown out as if to clutch the ground. 


42 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Thus she lay for a little while, as the little Pilgrim 
remembered she herself had lain, not wishing to 
move, wondering what had happened to her; 
then she clutched the hands which grasped her, 
and said, muttering, — 

‘^You are some one new. Have you come to 
save me ? Oh, save me ! Oh, save me i Don’t 
let me die ! ” 

This was very strange to the little Pilgrim, and 
went to her heart. She soothed the stranger, 
holding her hands warm and light, and stooping 
over her. 

Dear,” she said, you must try and not be 
afraid.” 

“ You say so,” said the woman, “ because you 
are well and strong. You don’t know what it is 
to be seized in the middle of your life, and told 
that you ’ve got to die. Oh, I have been a sin- 
ful creature ! I am not fit to die. Can’t you 
give me something that will cure me ? What is 
the good of doctors and nurses if they cannot 
save a poor soul that is not fit to die ? ” 

At this the little Pilgrim smiled upon her, 
always holding her fast, and said, — 

Why are you so afraid to die? ” 

The woman raised her head to see who it 
was who put such a strange question to her. 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


43 


'‘You are some one new,” she said. “I have 
never seen you before. Is there any one that is 
not afraid to die? Would you like to have to 
give your account all in a moment, without any 
time to prepare?” 

“ But you have had time to prepare,” said the 
Pilgrim. 

“ Oh, only a very, very little time. And I never 
thought it was true. I am not an old woman, 
and I am not fit to die ; and I ’m poor. Oh, if 
I were rich, I would bribe you to give me some- 
thing to keep me alive. Won’t you do it for 
pity ? — won’t you do it for pity ? When you are 
as bad as I am, oh, you will perhaps call for some 
one to help you, and find nobody, like me.” 

“ I will help you for love,” said the little Pil- 
grim ; “ some one who loves you has sent me.” 

The woman lifted herself up a little and shook 
her head. “There is nobody that loves me.” 
Then she cast her eyes round her and began to 
tremble again (for the touch of the little Pilgrim 
had stilled her). “ Oh, where am I? ” she said. 
“ They have taken me away ; they have brought 
me to a strange place ; and you are new. Oh, 
where have they taken me? — where am I? — 
where am I ? ” she cried. “ Have they brought 
me here to die ? ” 


44 


A LITfLE PILGRIM. 


Then the little Pilgrim bent over her and 
soothed her. You must not be so much afraid 
of dying ; that is all over. You need not fear 
that any more,” she said softly ; “ for here where 
you now are we have all died.” 

The woman started up out of her arms, and 
then she gave a great shriek that made the air 
ring, and cried out, “ Dead ! am I dead? ” with 
a shudder and convulsion, throwing herself again 
wildly with outstretched hands upon the ground. 

This was a great and terrible work for the little 
Pilgrim — the first she had ever had to do — and 
her heart failed her for a moment ; but after- 
ward she remembered our Brother who sent her, 
and knew what was best. She drew closer to the 
new-comer, and took her hand again. 

“Try,” she said, in a soft voice, “ and think a 
little. Do you feel now so ill as you were ? Do 
not be frightened, but think a little. I will hold 
your hand. And look at me ; you are not afraid 
of me?” 

The poor creature shuddered again, and then 
she turned her face and looked doubtfully, with 
great dark eyes dilated, and the brow and cheek 
so curved and puckered round them that they 
seemed to glow out of deep caverns. Her face 
was full of anguish and fear. But as she looked 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


45 


at the little Pilgrim, her troubled gaze softened. 
Of her own accord she clasped her other hand 
upon the one that held hers, and then she said 
with a gasp, — 

I am not afraid of you ; that was not true 
that you said ! You are one of the sisters, and 
you want to frighten me an^ make me tepent ! ” 
You do repent,” the Pilgrim said. 

“ Oh,” cried the poor woman, “ what has the 
like of you to do with me? Now I look at you, 
I never saw any one that was like you before. 
Don’t you hate me ? — don’t you loathe me ? I 
do myself. It ’s so ugly to go wrong. I think 
now I would almost rather die and be done with 
it. You will say that is because I am going to 
get better. I feel a great deal better now. Do 
you think I am going to get over it? Oh, I am 
better ! I could get up out of bed and walk 
about. Yes, but I am not in bed, — where have 
you brought me ? Never mind, it is a fine air ; I 
shall soon get well here.” 

The Pilgrim was silent for a little, holding he*r 
hands. And then she said, — 

^^Tell me how you feel now,” in her soft voice. 
The woman had sat up and was gazing round 
her. It is very strange,” she said ; it is all 
confused. I think upon my mother and the old 


46 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


prayers I used to say. For a long, long time 1 
always said my prayers ; but now I Ve got hard- 
ened, they say. Oh, I was once as fresh as any 
one. It all comes over me now. I feel as if I 
were young again — just come out of the coun- 
try. I am sure that I could walk.” 

The little Pilgrim raised her up, holding her 
by her hands ; and she stood and gazed round 
about her, making one or two doubtful steps. 
She was very pale, and the light was dim ; her 
eyes peered into it with a scared yet eager look. 
She made another step, then stopped again. 

“ I am quite well,” she said. I could walk 
a mile. I could walk any distance. What was 
that you said ? Oh, I tell you I am better ! I 
am not going to die.” 

‘‘You will never, never ‘die,” said the little 
Pilgrim ; “ are you not glad it is all over ? Oh, I 
was so glad ! And all the more you should be 
glad if you were so much afraid.” 

But this woman was not glad. She shrank 
away from her companion, then came close to 
her again, and gripped her with her hands. 

“ It is your — fun,” she said, “or just to frighten 
me. Perhaps you think it will do me no harm as 
I am getting so well ; you want to frighten me to 
make me good. But I mean to be good without 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


47 


that — I do ! — I do ! When one is so near dying 
as I have been and yet gets better, — for I am 
going to get better ! Yes ! you know it as well 
as I.’^ 

The little Pilgrim made no reply, but stood by, 
looking at her charge, not feeling that anything 
was given her to say, — and she was so new to this 
work, that there was a little trembling in her, lest 
she should not do everything as she ought. And 
the woman looked round with those anxious eyes 
gazing all about. The light did not brighten as 
it had done when the Pilgrim herself first came to 
this place. For one thing, they had remained 
quite close to the gate, which no doubt threw a 
shadow. The woman looked at that, and then 
turned and looked into the dim morning, and 
did not know where she was, and her heart was 
confused and troubled. 

Where are we ? ” she said. “ I do not know 
where it is ; they must have brought me here in 
my sleep, — where are we? How strange to 
bring a sick woman away out of her room in her 
sleep ! I suppose it was the new doctor,” she 
went on, looking very closely in the little Pil- 
grim’s face ; then paused, and drawing a long 
breath, said softly, “ It has done me good. It is 
better air — it is — a new kind of cure ! ” 


48 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


But though she spoke like this, she did not 
convince herself ; her eyes were wild with won- 
dering and fear. She gripped the Pilgrim’s arm 
more and more closely, and trembled, leaning 
upon her. 

“Why don’t you speak to me?” she said; 
“ why don’t you tell me ? Oh, I don’t know 
how to live in this place ! What do you do ? — 
how do you speak? I am not fit for it. And 
what are you ? I never saw you before, nor any 
one like you. What do you want with me ? Why 
are you so kind to me ? Why — why — ” 

And here she went off into a murmur of ques- 
tions. Why? why? always holding fast by the 
little Pilgrim, always gazing round her, groping 
as it were in the dimness with her great eyes. 

“ I have come because our dear Lord who is 
our Brother sent me to meet you, and because I 
love you,” the little Pilgrim said. 

“ Love me ! ” the woman cried, throwing up 
her hands. “ But no one loves me ; I have not 
deserved it.” Here she grasped her close again 
with a sudden clutch, and cried out, “ If this is 
what you say, where is God? ” 

“ Are you afraid of him ? ” the little Pilgrim said. 
Upon which the woman trembled so, that the 
Pilgrim trembled too with the quivering of her 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


49 


frame ; then loosed her hold, and fell upon her 
face, and cried, — 

Hide me ! hide me ! I have been a great 
sinner. Hide me, that he may not see me ; ” and 
with one hand she tried to draw the Pilgrim’s dress 
as a veil between her and something she feared. 

‘^How should I hide you from him who is 
everywhere ? and why should I hide you from 
your Father? ” the little Pilgrim said. This she 
said almost with indignation, wondering that any 
one could put more trust in her, who was no 
better than a child, than in the Father of all. 
But then she said, Look into your heart, and you 
will see you are not so much afraid as you think. 
This is how you have been accustomed to frighten 
yourself. But now look into your heart. You 
thought you were very ill at first, but not now ; 
and you think you are afraid ; but look into your 
heart — ” 

There was a silence; and then the woman 
raised her head with a wonderful look, in which 
there was amazement and doubt, as if she had 
heard some joyful thing, but dared not yet be- 
lieve that it was true. Once more she hid her 
face in her hands, and once more raised it again. 
Her eyes softened ; a long sigh or gasp, like one 
taking breath after drowning, shook her breast. 

4 


50 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Then she said, “ I think — that is true. But if 
I am not afraid, it is because I am — bad. It is 
because I am hardened. Oh, should not I fear 
him who can send me away into — the lake that 
burns — into the pit — ” And here she gave a 
great cry, but held the little Pilgrim all the while 
with her eyes, which seemed to plegd and ask for 
better news. 

Then there came into the Pilgrim’s heart what 
to say, and she took the woman’s hand again and 
held it between her own. ‘‘That is the change,” 
she said, “ that comes when we come here. We 
are not afraid any more of our Father. We are 
not all happy. Perhaps you will not be happy at 
first. But if he says to you, ‘ Go ! ’ — even to that 
place you speak of — you will know that it is 
well, and you will not be afraid. You are not 
afraid now, — oh, I can see it in your eyes. You 
are not happy, but you are not afraid. You know 
it is the Father. Do not say God, — that is far 
off, — Father !” said the little Pilgrim, holding up 
the woman’s hand clasped in her own. And 
there came into her soul an ecstasy, and tears that 
were tears of blessedness fell from her eyes, and all 
about her there seemed to shine a light. When 
she came to herself, the woman who was her charge 
had come quite close to her, and had added her 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


51 


Other hand to that the Pilgrim held, and was weep- 
ing and saying, “ I am not afraid,” with nov/ and 
then a gasp and sob, like a child who after a pas- 
sion of tears has been consoled, yet goes on sob- 
bing and cannot quite forget, and is afraid to own 
that all is well again. Then the Pilgrim kissed her, 
and bade her rest a little ; for even she herself felt 
shaken, and longed for a little quiet, and to feel 
the true sense of the peace that was in her heart. 
She sat down beside her upon the ground, and 
made her lean her head against her shoulder, and 
thus they remained very still for a little time, say- 
ing no more. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that 
her companion had fallen asleep, and perhaps it 
was so, after so much agitation. All this time 
there had been people passing, entering by the 
many doors. And most of them paused a little 
to see where they were, and looked round them, 
then went on ; and it seemed to the little Pilgrim 
that according to the doors by which they entered 
each took a different way. While she watched, 
another came in by the same door as that at 
which the woman w^ho was her charge had come 
in. And he too stumbled and looked about him 
with an air of great wonder and doubt. When 
he saw her seated on the ground, he came up to 
her hesitating, as one in a strange place who does 


52 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


not want to betray that he is bewildered and has 
lost his way. He came with a little pretence of 
smiling, though his countenance was pale and 
scared, and said, drawing his breath quick, “I 
ought to know where I am, but I have lost my 
head, I think. Will you tell me which is — the 
way? ” 

What way ? ” cried the little Pilgrim ; for her 
strength was gone from her, and she had no word 
to say to him. He looked at her with that be- 
wilderment on his face, and said, I find myself 
strange, strange. I ought to know where I am ; 
but it is scarcely daylight yet. It is perhaps 
foolish to come out so early in the morning.” 
This he said in his confusion, not knowing where 
he was, nor what he said. 

I think all the ways lead to our Father,” said 
the little Pilgrim (though she had not known this 
till now) . “ And the dear Lord walks about 

them all. Here you never go astray.” 

Upon this the stranger looked at her, and asked 
in a faltering voice, “Are you an angel?” still 
not knowing what he said. 

“ Oh, no, no ; I am only a Pilgrim,” she re- 
plied. 

“May I sit by you a little?” said the man. 
He sat down, drawing long breaths, as though he 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


S3 


had gone through great fatigue; and looked 
about with wondering eyes. • “You will wonder, 
but I do not know where I am,” he said. “ I 
feel as if I must be dreaming. This is not where 
I expected to come. I looked for something 
very different ; do you think there can have been 
any — mistake ? ” 

“ Oh, never that,” she said ; “ there are no 
mistakes here.” 

Then he looked at her again, and said, — 

“ I perceive that you belong to this country, 
though you say you are a pilgrim. I should be 
grateful if you would tell me. Does one live — 
here ? And is this all ? Is there no — no — but 
I don’t know what word to use. All is so strange, 
different from what I expected.” 

“ Do you know that you have died ? ” 

“ Yes — yes, I am quite acquainted with that,” 
he said, hurriedly, as if it had been an idea he 
disliked to dwell upon. “ But then I expected 
— Is there no one to tell you where to go, or 
what you are to be?. or to take any notice of 
you? ” 

The little Pilgrim was startled by this tone. 
She did not understand its meaning, and she had 
not any word to say to him. She looked at him 
with as much bewilderment as he had shown 


54 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


when he approached her, and replied, falter- 
ing, — 

There are a great many people here ; but I 
have never heard if there is any one to tell 
you — ” 

“ What does it matter how many people there 
are if you know none of them ? ” he said. 

“We all know each other,” she answered him : 
but then paused and hesitated a little, because 
this was what had been said to her, and of her- 
self she was not assured of it, neither did she 
know at all how to de^l with this stranger, to 
whom she had not any commission. It seemed 
that he had no one to care for him, and the little 
pilgrim had a sense of compassion, yet of trouble 
in her heart ; for what could she say ? And it 
was very strange to her to see one who was not 
content here. 

“ Ah, but there should be some one to point 
out the way, and tell us which is our circle, and 
where we ought to go,” he said. And then he 
too was silent for a while^ looking about him as 
all were fain to do on their first arrival, finding 
everything so strange. There were people com- 
ing in at every moment, and some were met at 
the very threshold, and some went away alone 
with peaceful faces, and there were many groups 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


55 


about talking together in soft voices ; but no one 
interrupted the other, and though so many were 
there, each voice was as clear as if it had spoken 
alone, and there was no tumult of sound as when 
many people assemble together in the lower 
world. 

The little Pilgrim wondered to find herself 
with the woman resting upon her on one side, 
and the man seated silent on the other, neither 
having, it appeared, any guide but only herself, 
who knew so little. How was she to lead them 
in the paths which she did not know ? — and she 
was exhausted by the agitation of her struggle 
with the woman whom she felt to be her charge. 
But in this moment of silence she had timf" to 
remember the face of the Lord, when he gave 
her this commission, and her heart was strength- 
ened. The man all this time sat and watched, 
looking eagerly all about him, examining the 
faces of those who went and came : and some- 
times he made a little start as if to go and speak 
to some one he knew ; but always drew back 
again and looked at the little Pilgrim, as if he 
had said, ‘^This is the one who will serve me 
best.” He spoke* to her again after a while and 
said, I suppose you are one of the guides that 
show the way.” 


56 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


“No,” said the little Pilgrim, anxiously. “ I 
know so little ! It is not long since I came here. 
I came in the early morning — ” 

“ Why, it is morning now. You could not come 
earlier than it is now. You mean yesterday.” 

“ I think,” said the Pilgrim, “ that yesterday is 
the other side ; there is no yesterday here.” 

He looked at her with the keen look he had, to 
understand her the better ; and then he said, — 
“No division of time ! I think that must be 
monotonous. It will be strange to have no night ; 
but I suppose one gets used to everything. I 
hope though there is something to do. I have 
always lived a very busy life. Perhaps this is just 
a little pause before we go — to be — to have — 
to get our — appointed place.” 

He had an uneasy look as he said this, and 
looked at her with an anxious curiosity, which the 
little Pilgrim did not understand. 

“ I do not know,” she said softly, shaking her 
head. “ I have so little experience. I have not 
been told of an appointed place.” 

The man looked at her very strangely. 

“ I did not think,” he said, “ that I should 
have found such ignorance here. Is it not well 
known that we must all appear before the judg- 
ment-seat of God? ” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


57 


These words seemed to cause a trembling on 
the still air, and the woman on the other side 
raised herself suddenly up, clasping her hands : 
and some of those who had just entered heard 
the words, and came and crowded about the 
little Pilgrim, some standing, some falling down 
upon their knees, all with their faces turned 
towards her. She who had always been so sim- 
ple and small, so little used to teach ; she was 
frightened with the sight of all these strangers 
crowding, hanging upon her lips, looking to her 
for knowledge. She knew not what to do or what 
to say. The tears came into her eyes. 

Oh,” she said, I do not know anything 
about a judgment-seat. I know that our Father 
is here, and that when we are in trouble we are 
taken to him to be comforted, and that our dear 
Lord our Brother is among us every day, and 
every one may see him. Listen,” she said, stand- 
ing up suddenly among them, feeling strong as an 
angel. “ I have seen him ! though I am nothing, 
so little as you see, and often silly, never clever 
as some of you are, I have seen him ! and so will 
all of you. There is no more that I know of,” 
she said softly, clasping her hands. “ When you 
see him it comes into your heart what you must 
do.” 


58 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


And then there was a murmur of voices about 
her, some saying that was best, and some wonder- 
ing if that were all, and some crying if he would 
but come now — while the little Pilgrim stood 
among them with her face shining, and they all 
looked at her, asking her to tell them more, to 
show them how to find him. But this was far 
above what she could do, for she too was not 
much more than a stranger, and had little strength. 
She would not go back a step, nor desert those 
who were so anxious to know, though her heart 
fluttered almost as it had used to do before she 
died, what with her longing to tell them, and 
knowing that she had no more to say. 

But in that land it is never permitted that one 
who stands bravely and fails not shall be left 
without succor ; for it is no longer needful there 
to stand even to death, since all dying is over, 
and all souls are tested. When it was seen that 
the little Pilgrim was thus surrounded by so many 
that questioned her, there suddenly came about 
her many others from the brightness out of which 
she had come, who, one going to one hand, and 
one to another, safely led them into the ways in 
which their course lay : so that the Pilgrim was 
free to lead forth the woman who had been given 
her in charge, and whose path lay in a dim, but 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


59 


pleasant country, outside of that light and glad- 
ness in which the Pilgrim’s home was. 

‘^But,” she said, “you are not to fear or be 
cast down, because he goes likewise by these 
ways, and there is not a corner in all this land 
but he is to be seen passing by ; and he will come 
and speak to you, and lay his hand upon you ; 
and afterwards everything will be clear, and you 
will know what you are to do.” 

“ Stay with me till he comes, — oh, stay with 
me,” the woman cried, clinging to her arm. 

“ Unless another is sent,” the little Pilgrim said. 
An ' it was nothing to her that the air was less 
bright there, for her mind was full of light, so 
that, though her heart still fluttered a little with 
all that had passed, she had no longing to return, 
nor to shorten the way, but went by the lower 
road sweetly, with the stranger hanging upon her, 
who was stronger and taller than she. Thus they 
went on, and the Pilgrim told her all she knew, 
and everything that came into her heart. And 
so full was she of the great things she had to say, 
that it was a surprise to her, and left her trem- 
bling, when suddenly the woman took away her 
clinging hand, and flew forward with arms out- 
spread and a cry of joy. The little Pilgrim stood 
still to see, and on the path before them was a 


oo 


A LIITLE PILGRIM. 


child, coming towards them singing, with a look 
such as is never seen but upon the faces of chil- 
dren who have come here early, and who behold 
the face of the Father, and have never known 
fear nor sorrow. The woman flew and fell at the 
child’s feet, and he put his hand upon her, and 
raised her up, and called her mother.” Then 
he smiled upon the little Pilgrim, and led her 
away. 

Now she needs me no longer,” said the 
Pilgrim ; and it was a surprise to her, ^and for a 
moment she wondered in herself if it was known 
that this child should come so suddenly and her 
work be over ; and also how she was to return 
again to the sweet place among the flowers from 
which she had come. But when she turned to 
look if there was any way, she found one stand- 
ing by such as she had not yet seen. This was 
a youth, with a face just touched with manhood, 
as at the moment when the boy ends, when all is 
still fresh and pure in the heart ; but he was taller 
and greater than a man. 

“ I am sent,” he said, “ little sister, to take you 
to the Father ; because you have been very faith- 
ful, and gone beyond your strength.” 

And he took the little Pilgrim by the hand, and 
she knew he was an angel ; and immediately the 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


6i 


sweet air melted about them into light, and a 
hush came upon her of all thought and all sense^ 
attending till she should receive the blessing, and 
her new name, and see what is beyond telling, 
and hear and understand. 




• _:;;.v Utv^hisin tHigwcf^lk ;>a: -iaf tod-,, 

bitiv ttYK?c)3*£ htwiife, 3ilis !i>t ^uiLtnbjJJii' 


£)iW^j;3d< aii 

..'/. -i : ' !- ■ ■ -biiii]eoL‘att. baa' *' '** 



;■>>' A'. 

;'>Wv) ' .. 





THE LITTLE PILGRIM GOES UP 

HIGHER. 




‘i'j aaoo KLiouri ajrru anr 

, aiaiiDiu 


n. 


THE LHTLE PILGRIM GOES UP 
HIGHER. 

HEN the little Pilgrim came out of the 



▼ ▼ presence of the Father, she found herself 
in the street of a great city. But what she saw 
and heard when she was with Him it is not given 
to the tongue of mortal to say, for it is beyond 
words, and beyond even thought. As the mys- 
tery of love is not to be spoken but to be felt, 
even in the lower earth, so, but much less, is that 
great mystery of the love of the Father to be 
expressed in sound. The little Pilgrim was very 
happy when she went into that sacred place, but 
there was a great awe upon her, and it might 
even be said that she was afraid ; but when she 
came out again she feared nothing, but looked 
with clear eyes upon all she saw, loving them, 
but no more overawed by them, having seen that 
which is above all. When she came forth again 
to her common life — for it is not permitted save 
for those who have attained the greatest heights 


5 


66 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


to dwell there — she had no longer need of any 
guide, but came alone, knowing where to go, and 
walking where it pleased her, with reverence and 
a great delight in seeing and knowing all that was 
around, but no fear. It was a great city, but it 
was not like the great cities which she had seen. 
She understood as she passed along how it was 
that those who had been dazzled but by a pass- 
ing giance had described the walls and the pave- 
ment as gold. They were like what gold is, 
beautiful and clear, of a lovely color, but softer 
in tone than metal ever was, and as cool and 
fresh to walk upon and to touch as if they had 
been velvet grass. The buildings were all beau- 
tiful, of every kyle and form that it is possible to 
think of, yet in great harmony, as if every man 
had followed his own taste, yet all had been so 
combined and grouped by the master architect 
that each individual feature enhanced the effect 
of the rest. Some of the houses were greater 
and some smaller, but all of them were rich in 
carvings and pictures and lovely decorations, and 
the effect was as if the richest materials had been 
employed, marbles and beautiful sculptured stone, 
and wood of beautiful tints, though the little Pil- 
grim knew that these were not like the marble 
and stone she had once known, but heavenly 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


67 


representatives of them, far better than they. 
There were people at work upon them, building 
new houses and making additions, and a great 
many painters painting upon them the history of 
the people who lived there, or of others who were 
worthy that commemoration. And the streets 
were full of pleasant sound, and of crowds going 
and coming, and the commotion of much busi- 
ness, and many things to do. And this move- 
ment, and the brightness of the air, and the 
wonderful things that were to be seen on every 
side, made the Pilgrim gay, so that she could 
have sung with pleasure as she went along. 
And all who met her smiled, and every group 
exchanged greetings as they passed along, all 
knowing each other. Many of them, as might 
be seen, had come there, as she did, to see the 
wonders of the beautiful city ; and all who lived 
there were ready to tell them whatever they de- 
sired to know, and show them the finest houses 
and the greatest pictures. And this gave a feel- 
ing of holiday and pleasure which was delightful 
beyond description, for all the busy people about 
were full of sympathy with the strangers, bidding 
them welcome, inviting them into their houses, 
making the warmest fellowship. And friends 
were meeting continually on every side ; but the 


68 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Pilgrim had no sense that she was forlorn in 
being alone, for all were friends ; and it pleased 
her to watch the others, and see how one turned 
this way and one another, every one finding some- 
thing that delighted him above all other things. 
She herself took a great pleasure in watching a 
painter, who was standing upon a balcony a little 
way above her, painting upon a great fresco : and 
when he saw this he asked her to come up beside 
him and see his work. She asked him a great 
many questions about it, and why it was that he 
was working only at the draperies of the figures, 
and did not touch their faces, some of which were 
already finished and seemed to be looking at her, 
as living as she was, out of the wall, while some 
were merely outlined as yet. He told her that 
he was not a great painter to do this, or to design 
the great work, but that the master would come 
presently, who had the chief responsibility. “ For 
we have not all the same genius,” he said, “ and 
if I were to paint this head it would not have the 
gift of life as that one has ; but to stand by and 
see him put it in, you cannot think what a hap- 
piness that is; for one knows every touch, and 
just what effect it will have, though one could not 
do it one’s self ; and it is a wonder and a delight 
perpetual that it should be done.” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


6 ^ 


The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, 
‘‘That is very beautiful to say. And do you 
never wish to be like him — to make the lovely, 
living faces as well as the other parts? ” 

“ Is not this lovely too ? ” he said ; and showed 
her how he had just put in a billowy robe, buoyed 
out with the wind, and sweepii^ down from the 
shoulders of a stately figure in such free and 
graceful folds that she would have liked to take 
it in her hand and feel the silken texture ; and 
then he told her how absorbing it was to study 
the mysteries of color and the differences of light. 
“ There is enough in that to make one happy,” 
he said. “ It is thought by some that we will all 
come to the higher point with work and thought : 
but that is not my feeling ; and whether it is so 
or not what does it matter, for our Father makes 
no difference : and all of us are necessary to 
everything that is done : and it is almost more 
delight to see the master do it than to do it with 
one’s own hand. For one thing, your own work 
may rejoice you in your heart, but always with a 
little trembling because it is never so perfect as 
you would have it — whereas in your master’s 
work you have full content, because his idea goes 
beyond yours, and as he makes every touch you 
can feel ‘ That is right — that is complete — that 


70 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


is just as it ought to be.’ Do you understand 
what I mean?” he said, turning to her with a 
smile. 

I understand it perfectly,” she cried, clasping 
her hands together with the delight of accord. 
“ Don’t you think that is one of the things that are 
so happy here? you understand at half a word.” 

Not everybody,” he said, and smiled upon 
her like a brother ; “ for we are not all alike even 
here.” 

‘‘Were you a painter?” she said, “ in — in the 
other — ” 

“ In the old times. I was one of those that 
strove for the mastery, and sometimes grudged — 
We remember these things at times,” he said 
gravely, “ to make us more aware of the blessed- 
ness of being content.” 

“ It is long since then?” she said with some 
wistfulness ; upon which he smiled again. 

“ So long,” he said, “ that we have worn out 
most of our links to the world below. We have 
all come away, and those who were after us for 
generations. But you are a new-comer.” 

“ And are they all with you ? are you all — to- 
gether? do you live — as in the old time? ” 

Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly 
as before. 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


71 


Not as in the old time,” he said, nor are 
they all here. Some are still upon the way, and of 
some we have no certainty, only news from time 
to time. The angels are very good to us. They 
never miss an occasion to bring us news ; for they 
go everywhere, you know.” 

“Yes,” said the little Pilgrim, though indeed 
she had not known it till now ; but it seemed to 
her as if it had come to her mind by nature and 
she had never needed to be told. 

“ They are so tender-hearted,” the painter 
said ; “ and more than that, they are very curious 
about men and women. They have known it all 
from the beginning, and it is a wonder to them. 
There is a friend of mine, an angel, who is more 
wise in men’s hearts than any one I know ; and 
yet he will say to me sometimes, ‘ I do not under- 
stand you, — you are wonderful.’ They like to 
find out all we are thinking. It is an endless 
pleasure to them, just as it is to some of us to 
watch the people in the other worlds.” 

“ Do you mean — where we have come from ? ” 
said the little Pilgrim. 

“ Not always there. We in this city have been 
long separated from that country, for all that we 
love are out of it.” 

“ But not here? ” the little Pilgrim cried again, 


72 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


with a little sorrow — a pang that she knew was 
going to be put away — in her heart. 

“ But coming ! coming ! ” said the painter, 
cheerfully ; and some were here before us, and 
some have arrived since. They are everywhere.” 

“ But some in trouble — some in trouble ! ” she 
cried, with the tears in her eyes. 

“ We suppose so,” he said, gravely ; “ for some 
are in that place which once was called among us 
the place of despair.” 

You mean — ” and though the little Pilgrim 
had been made free of fear, at that word which 
she would not speak, she trembled, and the light 
grew dim in her eyes. 

“ Well ! ” said her new friend, and what then ? 
The Father sees through and through it as he 
does here ; they cannot escape him : so that 
there is Love near them always. I have a son,” 
he said, then sighed a little, but smiled again, 
‘‘ who is there.” 

The little Pilgrim at this clasped her hands 
with a piteous cry. 

“ Nay, nay,” he said, “ little sister ; my friend 
I was telling you of, the angel, brought me news 
of him just now. Indeed there was news of him 
through all the city. Did you not hear all the 
bells ringing ? But perhaps that was before you 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


73 


came. The angels who know me best came one 
after another to tell me, and our Lord himself 
came to wish me joy. My son had found the way.” 

The little Pilgrim did not understand this, and 
almost thought that the painter must be mistaken 
or dreaming. She looked at him very anxiously 
and sdd, — 

“ I thought that those unhappy — never came 
out any more.” 

The painter smiled at her in return, and 
said, — 

Had you children in the old time ? ” 

She paused a little before she replied. 

“ I had children in love,” she said, but none 
that were born mine.” 

*Mt is the same,” he said, ‘^it is the same; 
and if one of them had sinned against you, injured 
you, done wrong in any way, would you have cast 
him off, or what would you have done? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said the little Pilgrim again, with a 
vivid light of memory coming into her face, which 
showed she had no need to think of this as a 
thing that might have happened, but knew. “ I 
brought him home. I nursed him well again. 
I prayed for him night and day. Did you say 
cast him off? when he had most need of me? 
then I never could have loved him,” she cried. 


74 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


The painter nodded his head, and his hand 
with the pencil in it, for he had turned from his 
picture to look at her. 

“Then you think you love better than our 
Father?” he said; and turned to his work, and 
painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as 
if a soft air had suddenly blown into it, and not 
the touch of a skilful hand. 

This made the Pilgrim tremble, as though in 
her ignorance she had done something wrong. 
After that there came a great joy into her heart. 
“ Oh, how happy you have made me ! ” she cried. 
“ I am glad with all my heart for you and your 
son — ” Then she paused a little and added, 
“ But you said he was still there.” 

“ It is true ; for the land of darkness is very 
confusing, they tell me, for want of the true light, 
and our dear friends the angels are not permitted 
to help : but if one follows them, that shows the 
way. You may be in that land yet on your way 
hither. It was very hard to understand at first,” 
said the painter ; “ there are some sketches I 
could show you. No one has ever made a 
picture of it, though many have tried ; but I 
could show you some sketches — if you wish to 
see.” 

To this the little Pilgrim’s look was so plain an 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


75 


answer that the painter laid down his pallet and 
his brush, and left his work, to show them to her 
as he had promised. They went down from the 
balcony and along the street until they came to 
one of the great palaces, where many were 
coming and going. Here they walked through 
some vast halls, where students were working at 
easels, doing every kind of beautiful work : some 
painting pictures, some preparing drawings, plan- 
ning houses and palaces. The Pilgrim would 
have liked to pause at every moment to see one 
lovely thing or another ; but the painter walked 
on steadily till he came to a room which was full 
of sketches, some of them like pictures in little, 
with many figures, — some of them only a repre- 
sentation of a flower, or the wing of a bird. 
“ These are all the master’s,” he said ; “ some- 
times the sight of them will be enough to put 
something great into the mind of another. In 
this comer are the sketches I told you of.” 
There were two of them hanging together upon 
the wall, and at first it seemed to the little Pilgrim 
as if they represented the flames and fire of which 
she had read, and this made her shudder for the 
moment. But then she saw that it was a red 
light like a stormy sunset, with masses of clouds 
in the sky, and a low sun very fiery and dazzling, 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


/6 

which no doubt to a hasty glance must have 
looked, with its dark shadows and high lurid 
lights, like the fires of the bottomless pit. But 
when you looked down you saw the reality what 
it was. The country that lay beneath was full of 
tropical foliage, but with many stretches of sand 
and dry plains, and in the foreground was a 
town, that looked very prosperous and crowded, 
though the figures were very minute, the subject 
being so great ; but no one to see it would have 
taken it for anything but a busy and wealthy 
place, in a thunderous atmosphere, with a storm 
coming on. In the next there was a section of 
a street with a great banqueting hall open to the 
view, and many people sitting about the table. 
You could see that there was a great deal of 
laughter and conversation going on, some very 
noisy groups, but others that sat more quietly in 
comers and conversed, and some who sang, and 
every kind of entertainment. The little Pilgrim 
was very much astonished to see this, and turned 
to the painter, who answered her directly, though 
she had not spoken. We used to think differ- 
ently once. There are some who are there and 
do not know it. They think only it is the old 
life over again, but always worse, and they are 
led on in the ways of evil ; but they do not feel 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


77 


the punishment until they begin to find out where 
they are and to struggle, and wish for other 
things.” 

The little Pilgrim felt her heart beat very wildly 
while she looked at this, and she thought upon 
the rich man in the parable, who, though he was 
himself in torment, prayed that his brother might 
be saved, and she said to herself, ^^Our dear 
Lord would never leave him there who could 
think of his brother when he was himself in such 
a strait.” And when she looked at the painter 
^ he smiled upon her, and nodded his head. Then 
he led her to the other corner of the room where 
there were other pictures. One of them was of 
a party seated round a table and an angel looking 
on. The angel had the aspect of a traveller, as if 
he were passing quickly by and had but paused 
a moment to look, and one of the men glancing 
up suddenly saw him. The picture was dim, but 
the startled look upon this man’s face, and the 
sorrow on the angel’s, appeared out of the misty 
background with such truth that the tears came 
into the little Pilgrim’s eyes, and she said in her 
heart, ^‘Oh that I could go to him and help 
him ! ” The other sketches were dimmer and 
dimmer. You seemed to see out of the darkness, 
gleaming lights, and companies of revellers, out ol 


78 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


which here and there was one trying to escape. 
And then the wide plains in the night, and the 
white vision of the angel in the distance, and here 
and there by different paths a fugitive striving to 
follow. Oh, sir,” said the little Pilgrim, how 
did you learn to do it? You have never been 
there.” 

‘‘ It was the master, not I ; and I cannot tell 
you if he has ever been there. When the Father 
has given you that gift, you can go to many 
places, without leaving the one where you are. 
And then he has heard what the angels say.” 

“And will they all get safe at the last? 
and even that great spirit, he that fell from 
heaven — ” 

The painter shook his head and said, “ It is 
not permitted to you and me to know such great 
things. Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask 
them : but for me I ask the Father in my heart 
and listen to what he says.” 

“ That is best ! ” the little Pilgrim said ; and 
she asked the Father in her heart : and there 
came all over her such a glow of warmth and 
happiness that her soul was satisfied. She looked 
in the painter’s face and laughed for joy. And 
he put out his hands as if welcoming some one, 
and his countenance shone ; and he said, — 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


79 


My son had a great gift. He was a master 
born, though it was not given to me. He shall 
paint it all for us so that the heart shall rejoice ; 
and you will come again and see.” 

After that it happened to the little Pilgrim to 
enter into another great palace where there were 
many people reading, and some sitting at their 
desks and writing, and some consulting together, 
with many great volumes stretched out open upon 
the tables. One of these who was seated alone 
looked up as she paused wondering at him, and 
smiled as every one did, and greeted her with 
such a friendly tone that the Pilgrim, who always 
had a great desire to know, came nearer to him 
and looked at the book, then begged his pardon, 
and said she did not know that books were 
needed here. And then he told her that he was 
one of the historians of the city where all the 
records of the world were kept, and that it was 
his business to work upon the great history, and 
to show what was the meaning of the Father in 
everything that had happened, and how each 
event came in its right place. 

And do you get it out of books ? ” she asked ; 
for she was not learned, nor wise, and knew but 
little, though she always loved to know. 

“ The books are the records, ” he said ; and 


8o 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


there are many here that were never known to us 
in the old days ; for the angels love to look into 
these things, and they can tell us much, for they 
saw it; and in the great books they have kept 
there is much put down that was never in the 
books we wrote, for then we did not know. We 
found out about the kings and the state, and 
tried to understand what great purposes they 
were serving ; but even these we did not know, 
for those purposes were too great for us, not 
knowing the end from the beginning, and the 
hearts of men were too great for us. We com- 
prehended the evil sometimes, but never fathomed 
the good. And how could we know the lesser 
things which were working out God’s way? for 
some of these even the angels did not know; 
and it has happened to me that our Lord him- 
self has come in sometimes to tell me of one that 
none of us had discovered.” 

Oh,” said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her 
eyes, I should like to have been that one ! — 
that was not known even to the angels, but only 
to Himself!” 

The historian smiled. “ It was my brother,” 
he said. 

The Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. 
‘‘Your brother, and you did not know him ! ” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


8l 


And then he turned over the pages and showed 
her where the story was. 

You know,” he said, that we who live here 
are not of your time, but have lived and lived 
here till the old life is far away and like a dream. 
There were great tumults and fightings in our 
time, and it was settled by the prince of the 
place that our town was to be abandoned, and 
all the people left to the mercy of an enemy who 
had no mercy. But every day as he rode out he 
saw at one door a child, a little fair boy, who sat 
on the steps, and sang his little song like a bird. 
This child was never afraid of anything, — when 
the horses pranced past him, and the troopers 
pushed him aside, he looked up into their face? 
and smiled. And when he had anything, a piece 
of bread, or an apple, or a plaything, he shared 
it with his playmates ; and his little face, and his 
pretty voice, and all his pleasant ways, made that 
corner bright. He was like a flower growing 
there ; everybody smiled that saw him.” 

“ I have seen such a child,” the little Pilgrim 
said. 

“ But we made no account of him,” said the 
historian. “ The Lord of the place came past 
him every day, and always saw him. singing in the 
sun by his father’s door. And it was a wonder 
6 


82 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


then, and it has been a wonder ever since, why, 
having resolved upon it, that prince did not 
abandon the town, which would have changed all 
his fortune after. Much had been made clear to 
me since I began to study, but not this : till the 
Lord himself came to me and told me. The 
prince looked at the child till he loved him, and 
he reflected how many children there were like 
this that would be murdered, or starved to death, 
and he could not give up the little singing boy 
to the sword. So he remained ; and the town 
was saved, and he became a great king. It was 
so secret that even the angels did not know it. 
But without that child the history would not have 
been complete.” 

And is he here ? ” the little Pilgrim said. 

“ Ah,” said the historian, “ that is more strange 
still; for that which saved him was also to his 
harm. He is not here. He is Elsewhere.” 

The little Pilgrim’s face grew sad; but then 
she remembered what she had been told. 

But you know,” she said, “ that he is com- 
ing? ” 

I know that our Father will never forsake 
him, and that everything that is being accom- 
plished in him is well.” 

“ Is it well to suffer? Is it well to live in that 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 83 

dark stormy country? Oh, that they were all 
here, and happy like you ! ” 

He shook his head a little and said, — 

It was a long time before I got here ; and as 
for suffering that matters little. You get experi- 
ence by it. You are more accomplished and fit 
for greater work in the end. It is not for noth- 
ing that we are permitted to wander ; and some- 
times one goes to the edge of despair — ” 

She looked at him with such wondering eyes 
that he answered her without a word. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I have been there.” 

And then it seemed to her that there was 
something in his eyes which she had not re- 
marked before. Not only the great content 
that was everywhere, but a deeper light, and 
the air of a judge who knew both good and 
evil, and could see both sides, and understood 
all, both to love and to hate. 

“ Little sister,” he said, “ you have never wan- 
dered far; it is not needful for such as you. 
Love teaches you, and you need no more ; but 
when we have to be trained for an office like this, 
to make the way of the Lord clear through all 
the generations, reason is that we should see 
everything, and learn all that man is and can be. 
These things are too deep for us; we stumble 


84 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


on, and know not till after. But now to me it is 
all clear.” 

She looked at him again and again while he 
spoke, and it seemed to her that she saw in him 
such great knowledge and tenderness as made 
her glad ; and how he could understand the fol- 
lies that men had done, and fathom what real 
meaning was in them, and disentangle all the 
threads. He smiled as she gazed at him, and 
answered as if she had spoken. 

What was evil perishes, and what was good 
remains ; almost ever5where there is a little 
good. We could not understand all if we had 
not seen all and shared all.” 

And the punishment too,” she said, wonder- 
ing more and more. 

He smiled so joyfully that it was like laughter. 

Pain is a great angel,” he said. ‘‘The rea- 
son we hated him in the old days was because 
he tended to death and decay; but when it is 
towards life he leads, we fear him no more. The 
welcome thing of all in the land of darkness is 
when you see him first and know who he is ; 
for by this you are aware that you have found the 
way.” 

The little Pilgrim did nothing but question 
with her anxious eyes, for this was such a won- 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


85 


der to her, and she could not understand. But 
he only sat musing with a smile over the things 
he remembered. And at last he said, — 

“ If this is so interesting to you, you shall read 
it all in another place, in the room where we have 
laid up our own experiences, in order to serve 
for the history afterwards. But we are still busy 
upon the work of the earth. There is always 
something new to be discovered. And it is 
essential for the whole world that the chronicle 
should be full. I am in great joy because it was 
but just now that our Lord told me about that 
child. Everything was imperfect without him, 
but now it is clear.” 

“ You mean your brother ? And you are happy 
though you are not sure if he is happy?” the 
little Pilgrim said. 

“ It is not to be happy that we live,” said he ; 
and then, “We are all happy so soon as we have 
found the way.” 

She would have asked him more, but that he 
was called to a consultation with some others of 
his kind, and had to leave her, waving his hand 
to her with a tender kindness which went to her 
heart. She looked after him with great respect, 
scarcely knowing why ; but it seemed to her that 
a man who had been in the land of darkness, and 


86 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


made his way out of it, must be more wonderful 
than any other. She looked round for a little 
upon the great library, full of all the books that 
had ever been written, and where people were 
doing their work, examining and reading and 
making extracts, every one with looks of so much 
interest, that she almost envied them, — though 
it was a generous delight in seeing people so 
happy in their occupation, and a desire to asso- 
ciate herself somehow in it, rather than any 
grudging of their satisfaction, that was in her 
mind. She went about all the courts of this 
palace alone, and everywhere saw the same work 
going on, and everywhere met the same kind 
looks. Even when the greatest of all looked up 
from his work and saw her, he would give her a 
friendly greeting and a smile ; and nobody was 
too wise to lend an ear to the little visitor, or to 
answer her questions. And this was how it was 
that she began to talk to another, who was seated 
at a great table with many more, and who drew 
her to him by something that was in his looks, 
though she could not have told what it was. It 
was not that he was kinder than the rest, for they 
were all kind. She stood by him a little, and saw 
how he worked and would take something from 
one book and something from another, putting 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


87 


them ready for use. And it did not seem any 
trouble to do this work, but only pleasure, and 
the very pen in his hand was like a winged thing, 
as if it loved to write. When he saw her watch- 
ing him, he looked up and showed her the beau- 
tiful book out of which he was copying, which 
was all illuminated with lovely pictures. 

This is one of the volumes of the great his- 
tory,” he said. “There are somethings in it 
which are needed for another, and it is a pleas- 
ure to work at it. If you will come here you will 
be able to see the page while I write.” 

Then the little Pilgrim asked him some ques- 
tions about the pictures, and he answered her, 
describing and explaining them ; for they were in 
the middle of the history, and she did not under- 
stand what it was. When she said, “ I ought not 
to trouble you, for you are busy,” he laughed so 
kindly that she laughed too for pleasure. And 
he said, — 

“ There is no trouble here. When we are not 
allowed to work, as sometimes happens, that 
makes us not quite so happy, but it is very sel- 
dom that it happens so.” 

“ Is it for punishment? ” she said. 

And then he laughed out with a sound which 
made all the others look up smiling ; and if they 


88 


A UTTLE PILGRIM. 


had not all looked so tenderly at her, as at a 
child who has made such a mistake as it is pretty 
for the child to make, she would have feared she 
had said something wrong ; but she only laughed 
at herself too, and blushed a little, knowing that 
she was not wise : and to put her at her ease 
again, he turned the leaf and showed her other 
pictures, and the story which went with them, 
from which he was copying something. And he 
said, — 

“This is for another book, to show how the 
grace of the Father was beautiful in some homes 
and families. It is not the great history, but con- 
nected with it j and there are many who love that 
better than the story which is more great.” 

Then the Pilgrim looked in his face and said, — 

“What I want most is, to know about your 
homes here.” 

“ It is all home here,” he said, and smiled ; 
and then, as he met her wistful looks, he went 
on to tell her that he and his brothers were not 
always there. “We have all our occupations,” 
he said, “and sometimes I am sent to inquire 
into facts that have happened, of which the 
record is not clear ; for we must omit nothing ; 
and sometimes we are told to rest and take in 
new strength ; and sometimes — ” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


89 


“ But oh, forgive me,” cried the little Pilgrim, 
“ you had some who were more dear to you than 
all the world in the old time? ” 

And the others all looked up again at the 
question, and looked at her with tender eyes, 
and said to the man whom she questioned, — 
“ Speak ! ” 

He made a little pause before he spoke, and 
he looked at one here and there, and called to 
them, — 

“ Patience, brother,” and “ Courage, brother.” 
And then he said, “ Those whom we loved best 
are nearly all with us ; but some have not yet 
come.” 

“ Oh,” said the little Pilgrim, but how then 
do you bear it, to be parted so long — so long? ” 
Then one of those to whom the first speaker 
had called out “ Patience ” rose, and came to 
her smiling ; and he said, — 

“ I think every hour that perhaps she will 
come, and the joy will be so great, that thinking 
of that makes the waiting short : and nothing 
here is long, for it never ends ; and it will be so 
wonderful to hear her tell how the Father has 
guided her, that it will be a delight to us all ; and 
she will be able to explain many things, not only 
for us, but for all; and we love each other so 


90 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


that this separation is as nothing in comparison 
with what is to come.’' 

It was beautiful to hear this, but it was not 
what the little Pilgrim expected, for she thought 
they would have told her of the homes to which 
they all returned when their work was over, and 
a life which was like the life of the old time ; but 
of this they said nothing, only looking at her 
with smiling eyes, as at the curious questions of 
a child. And there were many other things she 
would have asked, but refrained when she looked 
at them, feeling as if she did not yet understand ; 
when one of them broke forth suddenly in a 
louder voice, and said, — 

“ The little sister knows only the little language 
and the beginning of days. She has not learned 
the mysteries, and what Love is, and what life 
is.” 

And another cried, It is sweet to hear it 
again ; ” and they all gathered round her with 
tender looks, and began to talk to each other, 
and tell her, as men will tell of the games of 
their childhood, of things that happened, which 
were half-forgotten, in the old time. 

After this the little Pilgrim went out again into 
the beautiful city, feeling in her heart that every- 
thing was a mystery, and that the days would 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


91 


never be long enough to learn all that had yet to 
be learned, but knowing now that this too was 
the little language, and pleased with the sweet 
thought of so much that was to come. For one 
had whispered to her as she went out that the 
new tongue, and every explanation, as she was 
ready for it, would come to her through one of 
those whom she loved best, which is the usage 
of that country. And when the stranger has no 
one there that is very dear, then it is an angel 
who teaches the greater language, and that is 
what happens often to the children who are 
brought up in that heavenly place. When she 
reached the street again, she was so pleased with 
this thought that it went out of her mind to ask 
her way to the great library, where she was to 
read the story of the historian’s journey through 
the land of darkness; indeed she forgot that 
land altogether, and thought only of what was 
around her in the great city, which is beyond 
everything that eye has seen, or that ear has 
heard, or that it has entered into the imagination 
to conceive. And now it seemed to her that she 
was much more familiar with the looks of the 
people, and could distinguish between those who 
belonged to the city and those who were visitors 
like herself ; and also could tell which they were 


92 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


who had entered into the mysteries of the king- 
dom, and which were, like herself, only acquainted 
with the beginning of days. And it came to her 
mind, she could not tell how, that it was best not 
to ask questions, but to wait until the beloved 
one should come, who would teach her the first 
words. For in the mean time she did not feel at 
all impatient or disturbed by her want of knowl- 
edge, but laughed a little at herself to suppose 
that she could find out everything, and went on 
looking round her, and saying a word to every 
one she met, and enjoying the holiday looks of 
all the strangers, and the sense she had in her 
heart of holiday too. She was walking on in this 
pleasant way, when she heard a sound that was 
like silver trumpets, and saw the crowd turn 
towards an open space in which all the beautiful 
buildings were shaded with fine trees, and flowers 
were springing at the very edge of the pavements. 
The strangers all hastened along to hear what it 
was, and she with them, and some also of the 
people of the place. And as the little Pilgrim 
found herself walking by a woman who was of 
these last, she asked her what it was. 

And the woman told her it was a poet who had 
come to say to them what had been revealed to 
him, and that the two with the silver trumpets 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


93 


were angels of the musicians’ order, whose office 
it was to proclaim everything that was new, that 
the people should know. And many of those 
who were at work in the palaces came out and 
joined the crowd, and the painter who had 
showed the little Pilgrim his picture, and many 
whose faces she began to be acquainted with. 
The poet stood up upon a beautiful pedestal 
all sculptured in stone, and with wreaths of liv- 
ing flowers hung upon it — and when the crowd 
had gathered in front of him, he began his poem. 
He told them that it was not about this land, or 
anything that happened in it, which they knew 
as he did, but that it was a story of the old time, 
when men were walking in darkness, and when 
no one knew the true meaning even of what he 
himself did, but had to go on as if blindly, 
stumbling and groping with their hands. And 
‘‘Oh, brethren,” he said, “though all is more 
beautiful and joyful here where we know, yet to 
remember the days when we knew not, and the 
ways when all was uncertain, and the end could 
not be distinguished from the beginning, is sweet 
and dear ; and that which was done in the dim 
twilight should be celebrated in the day ; and 
our Father himself loves to hear of those who, 
having not seen, loved, and who learned without 


94 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


any teacher, and followed the light, though they 
did not understand.” 

And then he told them the story of one who 
had lived in the old time ; and in that air, which 
seemed to be made of sunshine, and amid all 
those stately palaces, he described to them the 
little earth which they had left behind — the skies 
that were covered with clouds, and the ways that 
were so rough and stony, and the cruelty of the 
oppressor, and the cries of those that were op- 
pressed. And he showed the sickness and the 
troubles, and the sorrow and danger; and how 
Death stalked about, and tore heart from heart ; 
and how sometimes the strongest would fail, 
and the truest fall under the power of a lie, and 
the tenderest forget to be kind ; and how evil 
things lurked in every corner to beguile the 
dwellers there ; and how the days were short and 
the nights dark, and life so little that by the time 
a man had learned something it was his hour to 
die. What can a soul do that is born there ? ” 
he cried ; “ for war is there and fighting, and per- 
plexity and darkness ; and no man knows if that 
which he does will be for good or evil, or can 
tell which is the best way, or know the end from 
the beginning ; and those he loves the most are a 
mystery to him, and their thoughts beyond his 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


95 


reach. And clouds are between him and the 
Father, and he is deceived with false gods and 
false teachers, who make him to love a lie.” The 
people who were listening held their breath, and 
a shadow like a cloud fell on them, and they re- 
membered and knew that it was true. But the 
next moment their hearts rebelled, and one and 
another would have spoken, and the little Pilgrim 
herself had almost cried out and made her plea 
for the dear earth which she loved ; when he 
suddenly threw forth his voice again like a great 
song. Oh, dear mother earth,” he cried ; “ oh, 
little world and great, forgive thy son ! for lovely 
thou art and dear, and the sun of God shines 
upon thee, and the sweet dews fall ; and there 
were we born, and loved and died, and are come 
hence to bless the Father and the Son. For in 
no other world, though they are so vast, is it 
given to any to know the Lord in the darkness, 
and follow him groping, and make way through 
sin and death, and overcome the evil, and con- 
quer in his name.” At which there was a great 
sound of weeping and of triumph, and the little 
Pilgrim could not contain herself, but cried out 
too in joy as if for a deliverance. And then the 
poet told his tale. And as he told them of the 
man who was poor and sorrowful and alone. 


96 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


and how he loved and was not loved again, and 
trusted and was betrayed, and was tempted and 
drawn into the darkness, so that it seemed as if 
he must perish ; but when hope was almost gone, 
turned again from the edge of despair, and con- 
fronted all his enemies, and fought and conquered, 

— the people followed every word with great out 
cries of love and pity and wonder. For each 
one as he listened remembered his own careei 
and that of his brethren in the old life, and 
admired to think that all the evil was past, and 
wondered that out of such tribulation and through 
so many dangers all were safe and blessed here. 
And there were others that were not of them, 
who listened, some seated at the windows of the 
palaces and some standing in the great square, 

— people who were not like the others, whose 
bearing was more majestic, and who looked upon 
the crowd all smiling and weeping, with wonder 
and interest, but had no knowledge of the cause, 
and listened as it were to a tale that is told. The 
poet and his audience were as one, and at every 
period of the story there was a deep breathing 
and pause, and every one looked at his neigh- 
bor, and some grasped each other’s hands as 
they remembered all that was in the past ; but 
the strangers listened and gazed and observed 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


97 


all, as those who listen and are instructed in 
something , beyond their knowledge. The little 
Pilgrim stood all this time not knowing where she 
was, so intent was she upon the tale ; and as she 
listened it seemed to her that all her own life was 
rolling out before her, and she remembered the 
things that had been, and perceived how all had 
been shaped and guided, and trembled a little 
for the brother who was in danger, yet knew that 
all would be well. 

The woman who had been at her side listened 
too with all her heart, saying to herself, as she 
stood in the crowd, He has left nothing out 1 
The little days they were so short, and the skies 
would change all in a moment and one’s heart 
with them. How he brings it all back ! ” And 
she put up her hand to dry away a tear from her 
eyes, though her face all the time was shining 
with the recollection. The little Pilgrim was glad 
to be by the side of a woman after talking with 
so many men, and she put out her hand and 
touched the cloak that this lady wore, and which 
was white and of the most beautiful texture, with 
gold threads woven in it, or something that looked 
like gold. 

Do you like,” she said, to think of the old 
time ? ” 


7 


98 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


The woman turned and looked down upon her, 
for she was tall and stately, and immediately took 
the hand of the little Pilgrim into hers, and held 
it without answering, till the poet had ended and 
come down from the place where he had been 
standing. He came straight through the crowd 
to where this lady stood, and said something to 
her. “You did well to tell me,” looking at her 
with love in his eyes, — not the tender sweetness 
of all those kind looks around, but the love that 
is for one. The little Pilgrim looked at them 
with her heart beating, and was very glad for 
them, and happy in herself ; for she had not seen 
this love before since she came into the city, and 
it had troubled her to think that perhaps it did 
not exist any more. “ I am glad,” the lady said, 
and gave him her other hand ; “ but here is a 
little sister who asks me something, and I nuxst 
answer her. I think she has but newly come.” 

“ She has a face full of the morning,” the poet 
said. It did the little Pilgrim good to feel the 
touch of the warm, soft hand ; and she was not 
afraid, but lifted her eyes and spoke to the lady 
and to the poet. “ It is beautiful what you said 
to us. Sometimes in the old time we used to 
look up to the beautiful skies and wonder what 
there was above the clouds ; but we never thought 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


99 


that up here in this great city you would be think- 
ing of what we were doing, and making beautiful 
poems all about us. We thought that you would 
sing wonderful psalms, and talk of things high, 
high above us.” 

‘‘The little sister does not know what the 
meaning of the earth is,” the poet said. “ It is 
but a little speck, but it is the centre of all. Let 
her walk with us, and we will go home, and you 
will tell her, Ama, for I love to hear you talk.” 

“ Will you come with us? ” the lady said. 

And the little Pilgrim’s heart leaped up in her, 
to think she was now going to see a home in this 
wonderful city ; and they went along, hand in 
hand, and though they were three together, and 
many were coming and going, there was no diffi- 
culty, for every one made way for them. And 
there was a little murmur of pleasure as the poet 
passed, and those who had heard his poem made 
obeisance to him, and thanked him, and thanked 
the Father for him that he was able to show them 
so many beautiful things. And they walked along 
the street which was shining with color, and saw 
as they passed how the master painter had come 
to his work, and was standing upon the balcony 
where the little Pilgrim had been, and bringing 
out of the wall, under his hand, faces which were 


lOO 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


full of life, and which seemed to spring forth as 
if they had been hidden there. Let us wait a 
little and see him working,” the poet said ; and 
all round about the people stopped on their way, 
and there was a soft cry of pleasure and praise 
all through the beautiful street. And the painter 
with whom the little Pilgrim had talked before 
came, and stood behind her as if he had been an 
old friend, and called out to her at every new 
touch to mark how this and that was done. She 
did not understand as he did, but she saw how 
beautiful it was, and she was glad to have seen 
the great painter, as she had been glad to hear 
the great poet. It seemed to the little Pilgrim as 
if everything happened well for her, and that no 
one had ever been so blessed before. And to 
make it all more sweet, this new friend, this great 
and sweet lady, always held her hand, and pressed 
it softly when something more lovely appeared ; 
and even the pictured faces on the wall seemed 
to beam upon her, as they came out one by one 
like the stars in the sky. Then the three went 
on again, and passed by many more beautiful 
palaces, and great streets leading away into the 
light, till you could see no further ; and they met 
with bands of singers who sang so sweetly that 
the heart seemed to leap out of the Pilgrim’s 


A LITTLE PILGRLM. 


lOI 


breast to meet with them, for above all things 
this was what she had loved most. And out of 
one of the palaces there came such glorious 
music that everything she had seen and heard 
before seemed as nothing in comparison. And 
amid all these delights they went on and on, but 
without wearying, till they came out of the streets 
into lovely walks and alleys, and made their way 
to the banks of a great river, which seemed to 
sing, too, a soft melody of its own. 

And here there were some fair houses sur- 
rounded by gardens and flowers that grew every- 
where, and the doors were all open, and within 
everything was lovely and still, and ready for 
rest if you were weary. The little Pilgrim was 
not weary ; but the lady placed her upon a couch 
in the porch, where the pillars and the roof were 
all formed of interlacing plants and flowers ; and 
there they sat with her, and talked, and explained 
to her many things. They told her that the earth 
though so small was the place in all the world to 
which the thoughts of those above were turned. 
“ And not only of us who have lived there, but of 
all our brothers in the other worlds ; for we are 
the race which the Father has chosen to be the 
example. In every age there is one that is the 
scene of the struggle and the victory, and it is for 


102 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


this reason that the chronicles are made, and that 
we are all placed here to gather the meaning of 
what has been done among men. And I am one 
of those,” the lady said, “ that go back to the 
dear earth and gather up the tale of what our 
little brethren are doing. I have not to succor 
like some others, but only to see and bring the 
news ; and he makes them into great poems, 
as you, have heard ; and sometimes the master 
painter will take one and make of it a picture ; 
and there is nothing that is so delightful to us as 
when we can bring back the histories of beautiful 
things.” 

But, oh,” said the little Pilgrim, “ what can 
there be on earth so beautiful as the meanest 
thing that is here ? ” 

Then they both smiled upon her and said, “ It 
is more beautiful than the most beautiful thing 
here to see how, under the low skies and in the 
short days, a soul will turn to our Father. And 
sometimes,” said Ama, ‘^when I am watching, 
one will wander and stray, and be led into the 
dark till my heart is sick ; then come back and 
make me glad. Sometimes I cry out within my- 
self to the Father, and say, ^ O my Father, it is 
enough ! ’ and it will seem to me that it is not 
possible to stand by and see his destruction. 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


103 


A.nd then while you are gazing, while you are 
crying, he will recover and return, and go on 
again. And to the angels it is more wonderful 
than to us, for they have never lived there. And 
all the other worlds are eager to hear what we 
can tell them. For no one knows except the 
Father how the battle will turn, or when it will all 
be accomplished ; and there are some who trem- 
ble for our little brethren. For to look down and 
see how little light there is, and how no one 
knows what may happen to him next, makes them 
afraid who never were there.” 

The little Pilgrim listened with an intent face, 
clasping her hands, and said, — 

But it never could be that our Father should 
be overcome by evil. Is not that known in all 
the worlds?” 

Then the lady turned and kissed her ; and the 
poet broke forth in singing, and said, Faith 
is more heavenly than heaven ; it is more beau- 
tiful than the angels. It is the only voice that 
can answer to our Father. We praise him, we 
glorify him, we love his name ; but there is but 
one response to him through all the worlds, and 
that is the cry of the little brothers, who see 
nothing and know nothing, but believe that he 
will never fail.” 


104 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


At this the little Pilgrim wept, for her heart was 
touched ; but she said, — 

‘^We are not so ignorant; for we have our 
Lord who is our Brother, and he teaches us all 
that we require to know.” 

Upon this the poet rose and lifted up his 
hands and sang again a great song ; it was in the 
other language which the little Pilgrim still did 
not understand, but she could make out that it 
sounded like a great proclamation that He was 
wise as he was good, and called upon all to see 
that the Lord had chosen the only way : and the 
sound of the poet’s voice was like a great trumpet 
sounding bold and sweet, as if to tell this to those 
who were far away. 

“For you must know,” said the Lady Ama, 
who all the time held the Pilgrim’s hand, “ that 
it is permitted to all to judge according to the 
wisdom that has been given them. And there 
are some who think that our dear Lord might 
have found another way, and that wait, sometimes 
with trembling, lest he should fail; but not 
among us who have lived on earth, for we know. 
And it is our work to show to all the worlds that 
his way never fails, and how wonderful it is, and 
beautiful above all that heart has conceived. 
And thus we justify the ways of God, who is our 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


105 

Father. But in the other worlds there are many 
who will continue to fear until the history of the 
earth is all ended and the chronicles are made 
complete.” 

“And will that be long?” the little Pilgrim 
cried, feeling in her heart that she would like to 
go to all the worlds and tell them of our Lord, 
and of his love, and how the thought of him 
makes you strong ; and it troubled her a little to 
hear her friends speak of the low skies, and the 
short days, and the dimness of that dear country 
which she had left behind, in which there were 
so many still whom she loved. 

Upon this Ama shook her head, and said that 
of that day no one knew, not even our Lord, but 
only the Father; and then she smiled and 
answered the little Pilgrim’s thought. “ When 
we go back,’’ she said, “ it is not as when we 
lived there ; for now we see all the dangers of it 
and the mysteries which we did not see before. 
It was by the Father’s dear love that we did not 
see what was around us and about us while we 
lived there, for then our hearts would have 
fainted ; and that makes us wonder now that any 
one endures to the end.” 

“ You are a great deal wiser than I am,” said 
the little Pilgrim ; “ but, though our hearts had 


I06 A LITTLE PILGRIM. 

fainted, how could we have been overcome ? for 
He was on our side.” 

At this neither of them made any reply at first, 
but looked at her ; and at length the poet said 
that she had brought many thoughts back to his 
mind, and how he had himself been almost 
worsted when one like her came to him and gave 
strength to his soul. “ For that He was on our 
side was the only thing she knew,” he said, “ and 
all that could be learned or discovered was not 
worthy of naming beside it. And this I must tell 
when next I speak to the people, and how our 
little sister brought it to my mind.” 

And then they paused from this discourse, and 
the little Pilgrim looked round upon the beautiful 
houses and the fair gardens, and she said, — 

“You live here? and do you come home at 
night? — but I do not mean at night, I mean 
when your work is done. And are they poets 
like you that dwell all about in these pleasant 
places, and the — ” 

She would have said the children, but stopped, 
not knowing if perhaps it might be unkind to 
speak of the children when she saw none there. 

Upon this the lady smiled once more, and 
said, — 

“ The door stands open always, so that no one is 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


107 

shut out, and the children come and go when they 
will. They are children no longer, and they have 
their appointed work like him and me,” 

“ And you are always among those you love ? *’ 
the Pilgrim said ; upon which they smiled again 
and said, “We all love each other;” and the 
lady held her hand in both of hers, and caressed 
it, and softly laughed and said, “ You know only 
the little language. When you have been taught 
the other you will learn many beautiful things.” 

She rested for some time after this, and talked 
much with her new friends ; and then there came 
into the heart of the little Pilgrim a longing to go 
to the place which was appointed for her, and 
which was her home, and to do the work which 
had been given her to do. And when the lady 
saw this she rose and said that she would accom- 
pany her a little upon her way. But the poet bid 
her farewell and remained under the porch, with 
the green branches shading him, and the flowers 
twining round the pillars, and the open door of 
this beautiful house behind him. When she 
looked back upon him he waved his hand to her 
as if bidding her God-speed, and the lady by her 
side looked back too and waved her hand, and 
the little Pilgrim felt tears of happiness come to 
her eyes ; for she had been wondering with a little 


io8 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


disappointment to see that the people in the city, 
except those who were strangers, were chiefly 
alone, and not like those in the old world where the 
husband and wife go together. It consoled her 
to see again two who were one. The lady pressed 
her hand in answer to her thought, and bade her 
pause a moment and look back into the city as 
they passed the end of the great street out of 
which they came. And then the Pilgrim was 
more and more consoled, for she saw many who 
had before been alone now walking together, hand 
in hand. 

“ It is not as it was,” Ama said. “ For all of 
us have work to do which is needed for the 
worlds, and it is no longer needful that one should 
sit at home while the other goes forth ; for our 
work is not for our life as of old, or for ourselves, 
but for the Father who has given us so great a 
trust. And, little sister, you must know that 
though we are not so great as the angels, nor as 
many that come to visit us from the other worlds, 
yet we are nearer to him. For we are in his 
secret, and it is ours to make it clear.” 

The little Pilgrim’s heart was very full to hear 
this ; but she said, — 

“ I was never clever, nor knew much. It is 
better for me to go away to my little border-land, 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


109 


and help the strangers who do not know the 
way.” 

“ Whatever is your work is the best,” the lady 
said ; “ but though you are so little you are in 
the Father’s secret too ; for it is nature to you to 
know what the others cannot be sure of, that we 
must have the victory at the last : so that we 
have this between us, the Father and we. And 
though all are his children, we are of the kindred 
of God, because of our Lord who is our Brother.’* 
And then the Lady Ama kissed her, and bade 
her when she returned to the great city, either 
for rest or for love, or because the Father sent 
for her, that she should come to the house by 
the river. For we are friends for ever,” she 
said, and so threw her white veil over her head, 
and was gone upon her mission, whither the little 
Pilgrim did not know. 

And now she found herself at a distance from 
the great city, which shone in the light with its 
beautiful towers, and roofs, and all its monuments, 
softly fringed with trees, and set in a heavenly firma- 
ment. And the Pilgrim thought of those words 
that described this lovely place as a bride adorned 
for her husband, and did not wonder at him who 
had said that her streets were of gold and her 
gates of pearl, because gold and pearls and pre- 


no 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


cious jewels were as nothing to the glory and the 
beauty of her. The little Pilgrim was glad to have 
seen these wonderful things, and her mind was 
like a cup running over with almost more than it 
could contain. It seemed to her that there never 
could be a time when she should want for wonder 
and interest and delight, so long as she had this 
to think of. Yet she was not sorry to turn her 
back upon the beautiful city, but went on her way 
singing in unutterable content, and thinking over 
what the lady had said, that we were in God’s se- 
cret, more than all the great worlds above and 
even the angels, because of knowing how it is that 
in darkness and doubt, and without any open vis- 
ion, a man may still keep the right way. The 
path lay along the bank of the river which flowed 
beside her and made the air full of music, and 
a soft air blew across the running stream and 
breathed in her face and refreshed her, and the 
birds sang in all the trees. And as she passed 
through the villages the people came out to meet 
her, and asked of her if she had come from the 
city, and what she had seen there. And every- 
where she found friends, and kind voices that 
gave her greeting. But some would ask her why 
she still spoke the little language, though it was 
sweet to their ears ; and others when they heard 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Ill 


it hastened to call from the houses and the fields 
some among them who knew the other tongue 
but a little, and who came and crowded round 
the little Pilgrim, and asked her many questions 
both about the things she had been seeing and 
about the old time. And she perceived that the 
village folk were a simple folk, not learned and 
wise like those she had left ; and that though 
they lived within sight of the great city, and 
showed every stranger the beautiful view of it, 
and the glory of its towers, yet few among them 
had travelled there;, for they were so content 
with their fields, and their river, and the shade of 
their trees, and the birds singing, and their simple 
life, that they wanted no change ; though it 
pleased them to receive the little Pilgrim, and 
they brought her into their villages rejoicing, and 
called every one to see her. And they told her 
that they had all been poor and labored hard in 
the old time, and had never rested ; so that now 
it was the Father’s good pleasure that they should 
enjoy great peace and consolation among the 
fresh-breathing fields and on the riverside, so that 
there were many who even now had little occu' 
pation except to think of the Father’s goodness, 
and to rest. And they told her how the Lord 
himself would come among them, and sit dowr 


II2 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


under a tree, and tell them one of his parables, 
and make them all more happy than words could 
say; and how sometimes he would send one 
out of the beautiful city, with a poem or tale to 
say to them, and bands , of lovely music, more 
lovely than anything beside, except the sound of 
the Lord’s own voice. “ And what is more won- 
derful, the angels themselves come often and lis- 
ten to us,” they said, “ when we begin to talk and 
remind each other of the old time, and how we 
suifered heat and cold, and were bowed down 
with labor, and bending over the soil, and how 
sometimes the harvest would fail us, and some- 
times we had not bread, and sometimes would 
hush the children to sleep because there was 
nothing to give them ; and how we grew old and 
weary, and still worked on and on.” We are 
those who were old,” a number of them called 
out to her, with a murmuring sound of laughter, 
one looking over another’s shoulder. And one 
woman said, “ The angels say to us, ^ Did you 
never think the Father had forsaken you and the 
Lord forgotten you ? ’ ” And all the rest an- 
swered as in a chorus, “There were moments 
that we thought this ; but all the time we knew 
that it could not be.” “ And the angels wonder 
at us,” said another. All this they said, crowd- 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


II3 

ing one before another, every one anxious to say 
something, and sometimes speaking together, but 
always in accord. And then there was a sound 
of laughter and pleasure, both at the strange 
thought that the Lord could have forgotten them,, 
and at the wonder of the angels over their simple 
tales. And immediately they began to remind 
each other, and say, ‘‘Do you remember? ” and 
they told the little Pilgrim a hundred tales of the 
hardships and troubles they had known, all smil- 
ing and radiant with pleasure ; and at every new 
account the others would applaud and rejoice, 
feeling the happiness all the more for the evils 
that were past. And some of them led her into 
their gardens to show her their flowers, and to 
tell her how they had begun to study and learn 
how colors were changed and form perfected, and 
the secrets of the growth and of the germ, of 
which they had been ignorant. And others ar- 
ranged themselves in choirs, and sang to her de- 
lightful songs of the fields, and accompanied her 
out upon her way, singing and answering to each 
other. The difference between the simple folk 
and the greatness of the others made the little 
Pilgrim wonder and admire ; and she loved them 
in her simplicity, and turned back many a time 
to wave her hand to them, and to listen to the 
8 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


1 14 

lovely simple singing as it went further and fur- 
ther away. It had an evening tone of rest and 
quietness, and of protection and peace. He- 
leadeth me by the green pastures and beside the 
quiet waters,” she said to herself 5 and her heart 
swelled with pleasure to think that it was those 
who had been so old, and so weary and poor, 
who had this rest to console them for all their 
sorrows. 

And as she went along, not only did she pass 
through many other villages, but met many on the 
way who were travelling towards the great city, 
and would greet her sweetly as they passed, and 
sometimes stop to say a pleasant word, so that 
the little Pilgrim was never lonely wherever she 
went. But most of them began to speak to her 
in the other language, which was as beautiful and 
sweet as music, but which she could not under- 
stand ; and they were surprised to find her ignorant 
of it, not knowing that she was but a new-comer 
into these lands. And there were many things that 
could not be told but in that language, for the 
earthly tongue had no words to express them. 
The little Pilgrim was a little sad not to under- 
stand what was said to her, but cheered herself 
with the thought that it should be taught to her by 
one whom she loved best. The way by the river- 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


I15 

side was very cheerful and bright, with many 
people coming and going, and many villages, 
some of them with a bridge across the stream, some 
withdrawn among the fields, but all of them 
bright and full of life, and with sounds of music, 
and voices, and footsteps : and the little Pilgrim 
felt no weariness, and moved along as lightly as a 
child, taking great pleasure in everything she saw, 
and answering all the friendly greetings with all her 
heart, yet glad to think that she was approaching 
ever nearer to the country where it was ordained 
that she should dwell for a time and succor the 
strangers, and receive those who were newly ar- 
rived. And she consoled herself with the thought 
that there was no need of any language but that 
which she knew. As this went through her mind, 
making her glad, she suddenly became aware of 
one who was walking by her side, a lady who was 
covered with a veil white and shining like that 
which Ama had worn in- the beautiful city. It 
hung about this stranger’s head so that it was not 
easy to see her face, but the sound of her voice 
was very sweet in the pilgrim’s ear, yet startled 
her like the sound of something which she knew 
well, but could not remember. And as there 
were few who were going that way, she was glad 
and said, Let us walk together, if that pleases 


Il6 A LITTLE PILGRIM. 

you.” And the stranger said, It is for that I have 
come,” which was a reply which made the little 
Pilgrim wonder more and more, though she was 
very glad and joyful to have this companion upon 
her way. And then the lady began to ask her 
many questions, not about the city, or the great 
things she had seen, but about herself, and what 
the dear Lord had given her to do. 

“ I am little and weak, and I cannot do much,” 
the little Pilgrim said. “ It is nothing but pleas- 
ure. It is to welcome those that are coming, and 
tell them. Sometimes they are astonished and do 
not know. I was so myself. I came in my sleep, 
and understood nothing. But now that I know, 
it is sweet to tell them that they need not fear.” 

“ I was glad,” the lady said, “ that you came 
in your sleep ; for sometimes the way is dark and 
hard, and you are little and tender. When your 
brother comes you will be the first to see him, 
and show him the way.” 

“My brother! is he coming?” the little Pil- 
grim cried. And then she said with a wistful 
look, “But we are all brethren, and you mean 
only one of those who are the children of our 
Father. You must forgive me that I do not 
know the higher speech, but only what is natural, 
for I have not yet been long here.” 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


II7 

He whom I mean is called — ” and here the 
lady said a name which was the true name of 
a brother born whom the Pilgrim loved above 
all others. She gave a cry, and then she said, 
trembling, “ I know your voice, but I cannot see 
your face. And what you say makes me think 
of many things. No one else has covered her 
face when she has spoken to me. I know you, 
and yet I cannot tell who you are.” 

The woman stood for a little without saying a 
word, and then very softly, in a voice which only 
the heart heard, she called the little Pilgrim by 
her name. 

‘‘ Mother,” cried the Pilgrim, with such a cry 
of joy that it echoed all about in the sweet 
air, and flung herself upon the veiled lady, and 
drew the veil from her face, and saw that it was 
she. And with this sight there came a revelation 
which flooded her soul with happiness. For the 
face which had been old and feeble was old no 
longer, but fair in the maturity of day ; and the 
figure that had been bent and weary was full of 
a tender majesty, and the arms that clasped her 
about were warm and soft with love and life. 
And all that had changed their relations in the 
other days and made the mother in her weakness 
seem as a child, and transferred all protection 


ii8 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


and strength to the daughter, was gone for ever : 
and the little Pilgrim beheld in a rapture one who 
was her sister and equal, yet ever above her, — 
more near to her than any, though all were so 
near, — one of whom she herself was a part, yet 
another, and who knew all her thoughts and the 
way of them before they arose in her. And to 
see her face as in the days of her prime, and her 
eyes so clear and wise, and to feel once more 
that which is different from the love of all, that 
which is still most sweet where all is sweet, the 
love of one, was like a crown to her in her hap- 
piness. The little Pilgrim could not think for joy, 
nor say a word, but held this dear mother’s hands 
and looked in her face, and her heart soared away 
to the Father in thanks and joy. They sat down 
by the roadside under the shade of the trees, — 
while the river ran softly by, and everything was 
hushed out of sympathy and kindness, — and ques- 
tioned each other of all that had been and was to 
be. And the little Pilgrim told all the little news of 
home, and of the brothers and sisters and the 
children that had been born, and of those whose 
faces were turned towards this better country ; 
and the mother smiled and listened and would 
have heard all over and over, although many 
things she already knew. “ But why should I tell 


A LIITLE PILGRIM. 


IJ9 

you, for did not you watch over us and see all we 
did, and were not you near us always?” the little 
Pilgrim said. 

“ How could that be ? ” said the mother ; “ for 
we are not like our Lord, to be everywhere. We 
come and go where we are sent. But sometimes 
we knew, and sometimes saw, and always loved. 
And whenever our hearts were sick for news it 
was but to go to him, and he told us everything. 
And now, my little one, you are as we are, and 
have seen the Lord. And this has been given us, 
to teach our child once more, and show you the 
heavenly language, that you may understand all, 
both the little and the great.” 

Then the Pilgrim lifted her head from her moth- 
er’s bosom, and looked in her face with eyes full 
of longing. You said ^ we,’ ” she said. 

The mother did nothing but smile ; then lifted 
her eyes and looked along the beautiful path of 
the river to where some one was coming to join 
them. And the little Pilgrim cried out again, 
in wonder and joy ; and presently found herself 
seated between them, her father and her mother, 
the two who had loved her most in the other days. 
They looked more beautiful than the angels and 
all the great persons whom she had seen ; for 
still they were hers and she was theirs more than 


120 


A LITTLE PILGRIM, 


all the angels and all the blessed could be. And 
thus she learned that though the new may take 
the place of the old, and many things may blos- 
som out of it like flowers, yet that the old is never 
done away. And then they sat together, telling 
of everything that had befallen, and all the little 
tender things that were of no import, and all the 
great changes and noble ways, and the wonders 
of heaven above and the earth beneath, for ail 
were open to them, both great and small ; and 
when they had satisfied their souls with these, her 
father and mother began to teach her the other 
language, smiling often at her faltering tongue, 
and telling her the same thing over and over till 
she learnt it ; and her father called her his little 
foolish one, as he had done in the old days ; and 
at last, when they had kissed her and blessed her, 
and told her how to come home to them when 
she was weary, they gave her, as the Father had 
permitted them, with joy and blessing, her new 
name. 

The little Pilgrim was tired with happiness and 
all the wonder and pleasure ; and as she sat there 
in the silence, leaning upon those who were so 
dear to her, the soft air grew sweeter and sweeter 
about her, and the light faded softly into a dim- 
ness of tender indulgence and privilege for her, 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


121 


because she was still little and weak. And 
whether that heavenly suspense of all her facul- 
ties was sleep or not she knew not, but it was 
such as in all her life she had never known. 
When she came back to herself, it was by the 
sound of many voices calling her, and many peo- 
ple hastening past and beckoning to her to join 
them. 

“ Come, come,” they said, little sister : there 
has been great trouble in the other life, and 
many have arrived suddenly and are afraid. 
Come, come, and help them, — come and help 
them ! ” 

'And she sprang up from her soft seat, and 
found that she was no longer by the riverside, or 
within sight of the great city, or in the arms of 
those she loved, but stood on one of the flowery 
paths of her own border-land, and saw her fellows 
hastening towards the gates where there seemed 
a great crowd. And she was no longer weary, 
but full of life and strength ; and it seemed to her 
that she could take them up in her arms, those 
trembling strangers, and carry them straight to 
the Father, so strong was she, and light, and full 
of force. And above all the gladness she had 
felt, and all her pleasure in what she had seen, 
and more happy even than the meeting with 


122 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


those she loved most, was her happiness now, as 
she went along as light as the breeze to receive 
the strangers. She was so eager that she began 
to sing a song of welcome as she hastened on. 

Oh, welcome, welcome ! ” she cried ; and as 
she sang she knew it was one of the heavenly 
melodies which she had heard in the great city ; 
and she hastened on, her feet flying over the 
flowery ways, thinking how the great worlds were 
all watching, and the angels looking on, and 
the whole universe waiting till it should be 
proved to them that the dear Lord, the Brother 
of us all, had chosen the perfect way, and tha*" 
over all evil and the sorrow he was the Conqueror 
alone. 

And the little Pilgrim’s voice, though it was so 
small, echoed away through the great firmament 
to where the other worlds were watching to see 
what should come, and cheered the anxious faces 
of some great lords and princes far more great 
than she, who were of a nobler race than man ; 
for it was said among the stars that when such a 
little sound could reach so far, it was a token that 
the Lord had chosen aright, and that his method 
must be the best. And it breathed over the earth 
like some one saying Courage ! to those whose 
hearts were failing ; and it dropped down, down. 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. 


123 


into the great confusions and traffic of the Land of 
Darkness, and startled many, like the cry of a 
child calling and calling, and never ceasing, 
“ Come ! and come ! and come ! ” 


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I. 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM IN THE SEEN 
AND UNSEEN. 

The little Pilgrim, whose story has been told in 
another place, and who had arrived but lately on 
the other side, among those who know trouble 
and sorrow no more, was one whose heart was 
always full of pity for the suffering. And after 
the first rapture of her arrival, and of the blessed 
work which had been given to her to do, and all 
the wonderful things she had learned of the new 
life, there returned to her in the midst of her 
happiness so many questions and longing thoughts 
that They were touched by them who have the 
care of the younger brethren, the simple ones of 
heaven. These questions did not disturb her 
peace or joy, for she knew that which is so often 
veiled on earth, — that all is accomplished by 
the will of the Father, and that nothing can hap- 
pen but according to His appointment and under 
His care. And she was also aware that the end 
is as the beginning to Him who knows all, and 


8 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


that nothing is lost that is in His hand. But 
though she would herself have willingly borne the 
sufferings of earth ten times over for the sake of 
all that was now hers, yet it pierced her soul to 
think of those who were struggling in darkness, 
and whose hearts were stifled within them by 
all the bitterness of the mortal life. Sometimes 
she would be ready to cry out with wonder that 
the Lord did not hasten His steps and go down 
again upon the earth to make all plain ; or how 
the Father himself could restrain His power, and 
did not send down ten legions of angels to make 
all that was wrong right, and turn all that was 
mournful into joy. 

^ It is but for a little time,’ said her companions. 
^ When we have reached this place we remember 
no more the anguish.’ ‘ But to them in their 
trouble it does not seem a little time,’ the Pil- 
grim said. And in her heart there rose a great 
longing. Oh that He would send me ! that I 
might tell my brethren, — not like the poor man 
in the land of darkness, of the gloom and misery 
of that distant place, but a happier message, of 
the light and brightness of this, and how soon 
all pain would be over. She would not put this 
into a prayer, for she knew that to refuse a prayer 
is pain to the Father, if in His great glory any 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


9 


pain can be. And then she reasoned with herself 
and said, ‘ What can I tell them, except that all 
will soon be well? and this they know, for our 
Lord has said it ; but I am like them, and I do 
.not understand.’ 

One fair morning while she turned over these 
thoughts in her mind there suddenly came towards 
her one whom she knew as a sage, of the number 
of those who know many mysteries and search 
into the deep things of the Father. For a mo- 
ment she wondered if perhaps he came to reprove 
her for too many questionings, and rose up and 
advanced a little towards him with folded hands 
and a thankful heart, to receive the reproof if it 
should be so, — for whether it were praise or 
whether it were blame, it was from the Father, 
and a great honor and happiness to receive. But 
as he came towards her he smiled and bade her 
not to fear. ^ I am come,’ he said, * to tell you 
some things you long to know, and to show you 
some things that are hidden to most. Little sister, 
you are not to be charged with any mission — ’ 

‘ Oh, no,’ she said, ‘ oh, no. I was not so 
presuming — ’ 

‘ It is not presuming to wish to carry comfort 
to any soul ; but it is permitted to me to open up 
to you, so far as I may, some of the secrets. The 


lO 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


secrets of the Father are all beautiful, but there is 
sorrow in them as well as joy ; and Pain, you 
know, is one of the great angels at the door.’ 

‘ Is his name Pain ? and I took him for Conso- 
lation ! ’ the little Pilgrim said. 

‘ He is not Consolation ; he is the schoolmas- 
ter whose face is often stern. But I did not come 
to tell you of him whom you know ; I am going 
to take you — back,’ the wise man said. 

‘ Back ! ’ She knew what this meant, and a 
great pleasure, yet mingled with fear, came into 
her mind. She hesitated, and looked at him, 
and did not know how to accept, though she 
longed to do so, for at the same time she was 
afraid. He smiled when he saw the alarm in her 
face. 

‘ Do you think,’ he said, ‘ that you are to go 
this journey on your own charges? Had you 
insisted, as some do, to go at all hazards, you 
might indeed have feared. And even now I can- 
not promise that you will not feel the thorns of 
the earth as you pass ; but you will be cared for, 
so that no harm can come.’ 

‘ Ah,’ she said wistfully, ‘it is not for harm — ’ 
and could say nothing more. 

He laid his hand upon her arm, and he said, 
‘ Do not fear ; though they see you not, it is yet 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


II 


sweet for a moment to be there, and as you pass, 
it brings thoughts of you to their minds.’ 

For these two understood each other, and knew 
that to see and yet not be seen is only a pleasure 
for those who are most like the Father, and can 
love without thought of love in return. 

When he touched her, it seemed to the little 
Pilgrim suddenly that everything changed round 
her, and that she was no longer in her own place, 
but walking along a weary length of road. It 
was narrow and rough, and the skies were dim ; 
and as she went on by the side of her guide she 
saw houses and gardens which were to her like 
the houses that children build, and the little gar- 
dens in which they sow seeds and plant flowers, 
and take them up again to see if they are growing. 
She turned to the Sage, saying, ‘ What are — ? ’ 
and then stopped and gazed again, and burst out 
into something that was between laughing and 
tears. ‘ For it is home,’ she cried, ‘ and I did 
not know it ! dear home ! ’ Fler heart was 
remorseful, as if she had. wounded the little 
diminished place. 

‘ This is what happens with those who have 
been living in the king’s palaces,’ he said with a 
smile. 

* But I love it dearly, I love it dearly ! ’ the little 


12 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Pilgrim said, stretching out her hands as if for 
pardon. He smiled at her, consoling her ; and 
then his face changed and grew very grave. 

‘ Little sister,’ he said, ‘ you have come not to 
see happiness but pain. We want no explanation 
of the joy, for that flows freely from the heart of 
the Father, and all is clear between us and Him ; 
but that which you desire to know is' why trouble 
should be. Therefore you must think of Him 
and be strong, for here is what will rend your 
heart.’ 

The little Pilgrim was seized once more with 
mortal fear. ‘ O friend,’ she cried, ‘ I have done 
with pain. Must I go and see others suffering 
and do nothing for them ? ’ 

‘ If anything comes into your heart to do or 
say, it will be well for them,’ the Sage replied : 
and he took her by the hand and led her into a 
house she knew. She began to know them all 
now, as her vision became accustomed to the 
atmosphere of the earth. She perceived that the 
sun was shining, though it had appeared so dim, 
and that it was a clear summer morning, very 
early, with still the colors of the dawn in the east. 
When she went indoors, at first she saw noth- 
ing, for the room was darkened, the windows all 
closed, and a miserable watch -light only burning. 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


13 


In the bed there lay a child whom she knew. 
She knew them all, — the mother at the bedside, 
the father near the door, even the nurse who was 
flitting about disturbing the silence. Her heart 
gave a great throb when she recognized them all ; 
and though she had been glad for the first moment 
to think that she had come just in time to give 
welcome to a little brother stepping out of earth 
into the better country, a shadow of trouble and 
pain enveloped her when she saw the others and 
remembered and knew. For he was their beloved 
child ; on all the earth there was nothing they 
held so dear. They would have given up their 
home and all they possessed, and become poor 
and homeless and wanderers with joy, if God, as 
they said, would have but spared their child. 
She saw into their hearts and read all this there ; 
and knowing them, she knew it without even that 
insight. Everything they would have given up 
and rejoiced, if but they might have kept him. 
And there he lay, and was about to die. The 
little Pilgrim forgot all but the pity of it, and 
their hearts that were breaking, and the vacant 
place that was soon to be. She cried out aloud 
upon the Father with a great cry. She forgot 
that it was a grief to Him in His great glory to 
refuse. 


14 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

There came no reply ; but the room grew light 
as with a reflection out of heaven, and the child 
in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the 
weariness of ending life, turned his head towards 
her, and his eyes opened wide, and he saw her 
where she stood. He cried out, ^ Look ! mother, 
mother ! ’ The mother, who was on her knees 
by the bedside, lifted her head and cried, * What 
is it, what is it, O my darling?’ and the father, 
who had turned away his face not to see the child 
die, came nearer to the bed, hoping they knew 
not what. Their faces were paler than the face 
of the dying, upon which there was light ; but no 
light came to them out of the hidden heaven. 
‘ Look ! she has come for me,’ he said ; but his 
voice was so weak they could not hear him, nor 
take any comfort. At this the little Pilgrim put 
out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the 
poor people who were mourning, and cried out, 
‘ Oh, but I must go with him ! I must take him 
home ! ’ For this was her own work, and she 
thought of her wonderings and her questions no 
more. 

Some one touched her on the shoulder, and she 
looked round ; and behind her was a great com- 
pany of the dear children from the better coun- 
try, whom the Father had sent, and not her, — 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 1 5 

lest he should grieve for those he had left behind, 

— to come for the child and show him the way. 
She paused for -a moment, scarcely willing to 
give him up ; but then her companion touched 
her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was 
different ! The mother lay by the side of the 
bed, her face turned only to the little white body 
which her child had dropped from him as he 
came out of his sickness, — her eyes wild with 
misery, without tears ; her feverish mouth open, 
but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had 
gone through and through her. She did not 
even writhe upon it, but lay motionless, cut 
down, dumb with anguish. The father had 
turned round again and leaned his head upon 
the wall. All was over, — all over ! The love 
and the hope of a dozen lovely years, the little 
sweet companion, the daily joy, the future trust 

— all — over — as if a child had never been 
born. Then there rose in the stillness a great 
and exceeding bitter cry, ^ God ! ’ that was all, 
pealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they 
could not see in their anguish, accusing Him, re- 
proaching Him who had done it. Was He their 
enemy that He had done it? No man was ever 
so wicked, ever so cruel but he would have 
spared them their boy, — taken everything and 


1 6 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

spared them their boy ; but God, God ! The 
little Pilgrim stood by and wept. She could do 
nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching with 
the pity and the anguish. How were they to be 
told that it was not God, but the Father; that 
God was only His common name, His name in 
law, and that He was the Father. This was all 
she could think of ; she had not a word to say. 
And the boy had shaken his little bright soul out 
of the sickness and the weakness with such a 
look of delight ! He knew in a moment ! but 
they — oh, when, when would they know ? 

Presently she sat outside in the soft breathing 
airs and little morning breezes, and dried her 
aching eyes. And the Sage who was her com- 
panion soothed her with kind words. ‘ I said 
you would feel the thorns as you passed,’ he said. 
‘We cannot be free of them, we who are of 
mankind.’ 

‘But oh,’ she cried amid her tears, ‘why, — 
why? The air of the earth is in my eyes, I can- 
not see. Oh, what pain it is, what misery! 
Was it because they loved him too much, and 
that he drew their hearts away? ’ 

The Sage only shook his head at her, smiling. 
‘ Can one love too much ? ’ he said. 

‘ O brother, it is very hard to live and to see 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 1 7 

another — lam confused in my mind/ said the 
little Pilgrim, putting her hand to her eyes. 
‘ The tears of those that weep have got into my 
soul. To live and see another die, — that was 
what I was saying ; but the child lives like you 
and me. Tell me, for I am confused in my 
mind.’ 

‘ fasten ! ’ said the Sage ; and when she 
listened she heard the sound of the children 
going back with a great murmur and ringing of 
pleasant voices like silver bells in the air, and 
among them the voice of the child asking a 
thousand questions, calling them by their names. 
The two pilgrims listened and laughed to each 
other for love at the sound of the children. ‘ Is 
it for the little brother that you are troubled ? ’ 
the Sage said in her ear. 

Then she was ashamed, and turned from the 
joyful sounds that were ascending ever higher 
and higher to the little house that stood below, 
with all its windows closed upon the light. It 
was wrapped in darkness though the sun was 
shining, the windows closed as if they never 
would open more, and the people within turning 
their faces to the wall, covering their eyes that 
they might not see the light of day. ' O miser- 
able day 1 ’ they were saying ; ‘ O dark hour ! O 
2 


1 8 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

life that will never smile again ! ’ She sat between 
earth and heaven, her eyes smiling, but her 
mouth beginning to quiver once more. ‘ Is it to 
raise their thoughts and their hearts ? * she said. 

‘ Little sister,’ said he, * when the Father 
speaks to you, it is not for me nor for another 
that He speaks. And what He says to you is — ’ 

‘ Ah,’ said the little Pilgrim, with joy, ‘ it is for 
myself, myself alone ! As if I were a great 
angel, as if I were a saint. It drops into my 
heart like the dew. It is what I need, not for 
you, though I love )'Ou, but for me only. It is 
my secret between me and Him.’ 

Her companion bowed his head. ‘ It is so. 
And thus has He spoken to the little child. But 
what He said or why He said it, is not for you 
or me to know. It is His secret ; it is between 
the little one and his Father. Who can interfere 
between these two ? Many and many are there 
born on earth whose work and whose life are 
ordained elsewhere, — for there is no way of 
entrance into the race of man which is the 
nature of the Lord, but by the gates of birth ; 
and the work which the Father has to do is so 
great and manifold that there are multitudes who 
do but pass through those gates to ascend to 
their work elsewhere. But the Father alone 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 1 9 

knows whom he has chosen. It is between the 
child and Him. It is their secret ; it is as you 
have said.* 

The little Pilgrim was silent for a moment, but 
then turned her head from the bright shining of 
the skies and the voices, of the children which 
floated farther and farther off, and looked at the 
house in which there was sorrow and despair. 
She pointed towards it, and looked at him who 
was her instructor, and had come to show her 
how these things were. 

‘ They are to blame,’ he said ; ‘ but none will 
blame them. The little life is hard. The Father, 
though He is very near, seems far off ; and 
sometimes even His word is as a dream. It is 
to them as if they had lost their child. Can you 
not remember? — *that was what we said. VVe 
have lost — ’ 

Then the little Pilgrim, musing, began to smile, 
but wept again as she thought of the father and 
the mother. ‘ If we were to go,’ she said, ^ hand 
in hand, you and I, and tell them that the Father 
had need of him ; that it was not for the little 
life but for the great and beautiful world above 
that the child was born ; and that he had got 
great promotion and was gone with the princes 
and the angels according as was ordained ? 


20 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


And why should they mourn? Let us go and 
tell them — ’ 

He shook his head. * They could not see us ; 
they would not know us. We should be to them 
as dreams. If they do not take comfort from 
our Lord, how could they take comfort from you 
and me ? We could not bring them back their 
child. They want their child, not only to know 
that all is well with him, — for they know that all 
is well with him, — but what they want is their 
child. They are to blame ; but who shall blame 
them? Not any one that is born of woman. 
How can we tell them what is the Father’s secret 
and the child’s ? ’ 

^ And yet we could tell them why it must be 
so?’ said the little Pilgrim. ‘For they prayed 
and besought the Lord. O brother, I have no 
understanding. For the Lord said, “ Ask, and it 
shall be given you ; ” and they asked, yet they 
are refused.’ 

‘ Little sister, the Father must judge between 
His children ; and he must first be heard who is 
most concerned. While they were praying, the 
Father and the child talked together and said 
what we know not ; but this we know, that his 
heart was satisfied with that which was said to 
him. Must not the Father do what is best for 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


21 


the child He loves, whatever the other children 
may say? Nay, did not our own fathers do this 
on earth, and we submitted to them ; how much 
more He who sees all ? ’ 

The little Pilgrim stole softly from his side 
when he had done speaking, and went back into 
the darkened house, and saw the mother where 
she sat weeping and refusing to be comforted, in 
her sorrow perceiving not heaven nor any con- 
solation, nor understanding that her child had 
gone joyfully to his Father and her Father, as 
his soul had required, and as the Lord had 
willed. Yet though she had not joy but only 
anguish in her faith, and though her eyes were 
darkened that she could not see, yet the woman 
ceased not to call upon God, God, and to hold 
by Him who had smitten her. And the father 
of the child had gone into his chamber and shut 
the door, and sat dumb, opening not his mouth, 
thinking upon his delightsome boy, and how they 
had walked together and talked together, and 
should do so again nevermore. And in their 
hearts they reproached their God, the giver of 
all, and accused the Lord to His face, as if He 
had deceived them, yet clung to Him still, 
weeping and upbraiding, and would not let Him 
go. The little Pilgrim wept too, and said many 


22 THE LITTLE PILGRIM 

things to them which they could not hear. But 
when sTie saw that though they were in darkness 
and misery, God was in all their thoughts, she 
bethought herself suddenly of what the poet had 
said in the celestial city, and of the songs he 
sang, which were a wonder to the Angels and 
Powers, of the little life and the sorrowful earth, 
where men endured all things, yet overcame by 
the name of the Lord. When this came into 
her mind, she rose up again softly with a sacred 
awe, and wept not, but did them reverence ; for 
without any light or guidance in their anguish 
they yet wavered not, died not, but endured, and 
in the end would overcome. It seemed to her 
that she saw the great beautiful angels looking 
on, the great souls that are called to love and to 
serve, but not to suffer like the little brethren of 
the earth ; and that among the princes of heaven 
there was reverence and awe, and even envy of 
those who thus had their garments bathed in 
blood, and suffered loss and pain and misery, 
yet never abandoned their life and the work that 
had been given them to do. 

As she came forth again comforted, she found 
the Sage standing with his face lifted to heaven, 
smiling still at the sound, though faint and dis- 
tant, of the children all calling to each other and 


IN TOE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


23 


shouting together as they reached the gate. 
‘ Oh, hush ! ’ she said ; ‘ let not the mother hear 
them ! for it will make her heart more bitter to 
think she can never hear again her child’s 
voice.’ 

* But it is her child’s voice,’ he said ; then 
very gently, ‘ they are to blame ; but no one 
will be found to blame them either in earth or 
heaven.’ 

The earth pilgrims went far after this, yet more 
softly than when they first left their beautiful 
country, — for then the little Pilgrim had been 
glad, believing that as all had been made clear 
to her in her own life, so that all that concerned 
the life of man should be made clear ; but this 
was more hard and encompassed with pain and 
darkness, as that which is in the doing is al- 
ways more hard to understand than that which 
is accomplished. And she learned now what 
she had not understood, though her companion 
warned her, how sharp are those thorns qf earth 
that pierce the wayfarer’s foot, and that those 
who come back cannot help but suffer because 
of love and fellow-feeling. And she learned that 
though she could smile and give thanks to the 
Father in the recollection of her own griefs that 
were past, yet those that are present are too 


24 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


poignant, and to look upon others in their hour 
of darkness makes His ways more hard to com- 
prehend than even when the sorrow is your own. 

While she mused thus, there was suddenly 
revealed to her another sight. They had gone 
far before they came to this new scene. Night 
had crept over the skies all gray and dark ; and 
the sea came in with a whisper which sounded 
to some like the hush of peace, and to some like 
the voice of sorrow and moaning, and to some 
was but the monotony of endless recurrence, in 
which was no soul. The skies were dark over- 
head, but opened with a clear shining of light 
which had no color, towards the west, — for the 
sun had long gone down, and it was night. The 
two travellers perceived a woman who came out 
of a house all lit with lamps and firelight, and 
took the lonely path towards the sea. And the 
little Pilgrim knew her, as she had known the 
father and mother in the darkened house, and 
would Jiave joined her with a cry of pleasure ; 
but she remembered that the friend could not 
see her or hear her, being wrapped still in the 
mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of 
thoughts and cares. The Sage made her a sign 
to follow, and these two tender companions ac- 
companied her who saw them not, walking dark- 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 25 

ling by the silent way. The heart of the woman 
was heavy in her breast. It was so sore by reason 
of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the 
past, and all the fears that beset her life to come, 
that she walked, not weeping because of being 
beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her thoughts 
being in her little way like those of His upon 
whose brow there once stood drops as it were of 
blood ; and out of her heart there came a moan- 
ing which was without words. If words had been 
possible, they would have been as His also, who 
said, ^ Father, forgive them, for they know not 
what they do.’ For those who had wounded her 
were those whom in all the world she loved most 
dear ; and the quivering of anguish was in her as 
she walked, seeking the darkness and the silence, 
and to hide herself, if that might be, from her 
own thoughts. She went along the lonely path 
with the stinging of her wounds so keen and 
sharp that all her body and soul were as one 
pain. Greater grief hath no man than this, to be 
slain and tortured by those whom he loves. 
When her soul could speak, this was what it said : 
^ Father, forgive them ! Father, save them ! ’ 
She had no strength for more. 

This the heavenly pilgrims saw, — for they 
stood by her as in their own country, where 


26 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But 
as they followed her and looked into her soul — 
with their hearts, which were human too, wrung at 
the" sight of hers in its anguish — there suddenly 
became visible before them a strange sight such 
as they had never seen before. It was like the 
rising of the sun, but it was not the sun. Sud- 
denly into the heart upon which they looked 
there came a great silence and calm. There was 
nothing said that even they could hear, nor done 
that they could see ; but for a moment the throb- 
bing was stilled, and the anguish calmed, and 
there came a great peace. The woman in whom 
this wonder was wrought was astonished, as they 
were. She gave a low cry in the darkness for 
wonder that the pain had gone from her in an 
instant, in the twinkling of an eye. There was 
no promise made to her that her prayer would be 
granted, and no new light given to guide her for 
the time to come ; but her pain was taken away. 
She stood hushed, and lifted her eyes ; and the 
gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was like 
a canopy above, and the lightening of colorless 
light towards the west, entered with their great 
quiet into her heart. ‘ Is this the peace that 
passeth all understanding ? ’ she said to herself, 
confused with the sudden calm. In all her life 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 27 

it had never so happened to her before, — to 
be healed of her grievous wounds, yet without 
cause ; and while no change was wrought, yet to 
be put to rest. 

‘It is our Brother,’ said the little Pilgrim, 
shedding tears of joy. ‘ It is the secret of the * 
Lord,’ said the Sage ; but not even they had 
seen Him passing by. 

They walked with her softly in the silence, in 
the sound of the sea, till the wonder in her was 
hushed like the pain, and talked with her, though 
she knew it not. For very soon questions arose 
in her heart. ‘And oh,’ she said, ‘is this the 
Lord’s reply?’ with thankfulness and awe; but 
because she was human, and knew so little, and 
was full of impatience, ‘ Oh, and is this all I ’ was 
what she next said. ‘ I asked for themy and Thou 
hast given to me — ’ then the voice of her heart 
grew louder, and she cried, with the sound of 
the pain coming back, ‘I ask one thing, and 
Thou givest another. I asked no blessing for 
me. I asked for them, my Lord, my God ! 
Give it to them — to them ! ’ with disappoint- 
ment rising in her heart. The little Pilgrim 
laid her hand upon the woman’s arm, — for she 
was afraid lest our Lord might be displeased, 
forgetting (for she was still imperfect) that He 


28 


THE LITfLE PILGRIM. 


sees all that is in the soul, and understands and 
takes no offence, — and said quickly, ‘ Oh, be 
not afraid ; He will save them too. The bless- 
ing will come for them too.’ 

^ ‘At His own time,’ said the Sage, ‘and in His 
own way.’ 

These thoughts rose in the woman’s soul. She 
did not know that they were said to her, nor who 
said them, but accepted them as if they had 
come from her own thoughts. For she said to 
herself, ‘ This is what is meant by the answer of 
prayer. It is not what we ask ; yet what I ask 
is according to Thy will, my Lord. It is not 
riches, nor honors, nor beauty, nor health, nor 
long life, nor anything of this world. If I have 
been impatient, this is my punishment, — that 
the Lord has thought, not of them, but of me. 
But I can bear all, O my Lord ! that and a thou- 
sand times more, if Thou wilt but think of 
them and not of me ! ’ 

Nevertheless she returned to her home stilled 
and comforted ; for though her trouble returned 
to her and was not changed, yet for a moment it 
had been lifted from her, and the peace which 
passeth all understanding had entered her heart. 

‘ But why, then,’ said the little Pilgrim to her 
companion, when the friend was gone, ‘ why will 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 29 

not the Father give to her what she asks? for I 
know what it is. It is that those whom she loves 
should love Him and serve Him ; and that is 
His will too, for He would have all love Him, He 
who loves all.’ 

^ little sister,’ said her companion, ‘ you asked 
me why He did not let the child remain upon 
the earth.’ 

^ Ah, but that is different,’ she cried ; ‘ oh, it 
is different ! When you said that the secret was 
between the child and the Father I knew that it 
was so ; for it is just that the Father should con- 
sider us first one by one, and do for us what is 
best. But it is always best to serve Him. It is 
best to love him ; it is best to give up all the 
world and cleave to Him, and follow wherever 
He goes. No man can say otherwise than this, 
— that to follow the Lord and serve Him, that is 
well for all, and always the best ! ’ 

She spoke so hotly and hastily that her com- 
panion could find no room for reply. But he 
was in no haste ; he waited till she had said 
what was in her heart. Then he replied, ‘ If it 
were even so, if the Father heard all prayers, 
and put forth His hand and forced those who 
were far off to come near — ’ 

The little Pilgrim looked up with horror in her 


30 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

face, as if he had blasphemed, and said, ^Forced ! 
not so ; not so ! ’ 

‘ Yet it must be so,’ he said, * if it is against 
their desire and will.’ 

‘Oh, not so; not so!’ she cried, ‘but that 
He should change their hearts.’ 

‘Yet that too against their will,’ he said. 

The little Pilgrim paused upon the way ; and 
her heart rose against her companion, who spoke 
things so hard to be received, and that seemed 
to dishonor the work of the Lord. But she re- 
membered that it could not be so, and paused 
before she spoke, and looked up at him with 
eyes that were full of wonder and almost of fear. 

‘ Then must they perish ? ’ she said, ‘ and must 
her heart break ? ’ and her voice sank low for pity 
and sorrow. Though she was herself among the 
blessed, yet the thorns and briers of the earth 
caught at her garments and pierced her tender 
feet. 

‘ Little sister,’ said the Sage, ‘ to us who are 
born of the earth it is hard to remember that the 
child belongs not first to the parents, nor the 
husband to the wife, nor the wife to the husband, 
but that all are the children of the Father. And 
He is just ; He will not neglect the little one be- 
cause of those prayers which the father and the 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 3 1 

mother pour forth to Him, although they cry 
with anguish and with tears. Nor will He break 
His great law and violate the nature He has 
made, and compel His own child to what it wills 
not and loves not. The woman is comforted in 
the breaking of her heart ; but those whom 
she loves, are not they also the children of the 
Father, who loves them more than she does? 
And each is to Him as if there were not another 
in the world. Nor is there any other in the 
world, — for none can come between the Father 
and the child.’ 

A smile came upon the little Pilgrim’s face, yet 
she trembled. ‘ It is dim before me,’ she said, 
‘ and I cannot see clearly. Oh, if the time 
would but hasten, that our Lord might come, 
and all struggles be ended, and the darkness 
vanish away ! ’ 

‘ He will come when all things are ready,’ said 
the Sage ; and as they went upon their way he 
showed her other sights, and the mysteries of the 
heart of man, and the great patience of our 
Lord. 

It happened to them suddenly to perceive in 
their way a man returning home. These are 
words that are sweet to all who have lived upon 
the earth and known its ways ; but far, far were 


32 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


they from that meaning which is sweet. The 
dark hours had passed, and men had slept ; and 
the night was over. The sun was rising in the 
sky, which was keen and clear with the pleasure 
of the morning. The air was fresh with the dew, 
and the birds awaking in the trees, and the 
breeze so sweet that it seemed to blow from 
heaven ; and to the two travellers it seemed al- 
most in the joy of the new day as if the Lord 
had already come. But here was one who 
proved that it was not so. He had not slept all 
the night, nor had night been silent to him nor 
dark, but full of glaring light and noise and riot ; 
his eyes were red with fever and weariness, and 
his soul was sick within him, and the morning 
looked him in the face and upbraided him as a 
sister might have upbraided him, who loved him. 
And he said in his heart, as one had said of old, 
that all was vanity ; that it was vain to live, and 
evil to have been born ; that the day of death 
was better than the day of birth, and all was de- 
lusion, and love but a word, and life a lie. His 
footsteps on the road seemed to sound all 
through the sleeping world ; and when he looked 
the morning in the face he was ashamed, and 
cursed the light. The two went after him into a 
silent house, where everybody slept. The light 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 33 

that had burned for him all night was sick like a 
guilty thing m the eye of day, and all that had 
been prepared for his repose was ghastly to him 
in the hour of awaking, as if prepared not for 
sleep but for death. His heart was sick like the 
watch-light, and life flickered within him with dis- 
gust and disappointment. For why had he been 
born, if this were all ? — for all was vanity. The 
night and the day had been passed in pleasure, 
and it was vanity ; and now his soul loathed his 
pleasures, yet he knew that was vanity too, and 
that next day he would resume them as before. 
All was vain, — the morning and the evening, and 
the spirit of man and the ways of human life. 
He looked himself in the face and loathed this 
dream of existence, and knew that it was naught. 
So much as it had cost to be born, to be fed, 
and guarded and taught and cared for, and all 
for this ! He said to himself that it was better 
to die than to live, and never to have been than 
to be. 

As these spectators stood by with much pity 
and tenderness looking into the weariness and 
sickness of this soul, there began to be enacted 
before them a scene such as no man could have 
seen, which no one was aware of save he who 
was concerned, and which even to him was not 
3 


34 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


clear in its meanings, but rather like a phantas- 
magoria, a thing of the mists ; yet which was 
great and solemn as is the council of a king in 
which great things are debated for the welfare of 
the nations. The air seemed in a moment to be 
full of the sound of footsteps, and of something 
more subtle, which the Sage and the Pilgrim 
knew to be wings ; and as they looked, there 
grew before them the semblance of a court of 
justice, with accusers and defenders ; but the 
judge and the criminal were one. Then was put 
forth that indictment which he had been making 
up in his soul against life and against the world ; 
and again another indictment which was against 
himself. And then the advocates began their 
pleadings. Voices were there great and elo- 
quent, such as are familiar in the courts above, 
which sounded forth in the spectators’ ears earn- 
est as those who plead for life and death. And 
these speakers declared that sin only is vanity, 
that life is noble and love sweet, and every man 
made in the image of God, to serve both God 
and man ; and they set forth their reasons before 
the judge and showed him mysteries of life and 
death ; and they took up the counter-indictment 
and proved to him how in all the world he had 
sought but himself, his own pleasure and profit, 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 35 

his own will, not the will of God, nor even the 
good desire of humble nature, but only that 
which pleased his sick fancies and his self-loving 
heart. And they besought him with a thousand 
arguments to return and choose again the better 
way. ‘ Arise,’ they cried, ' thou, miserable, and 
become great ; arise, thou vain soul, and become 
noble. Take thy birthright, O son, and behold 
the face of the Father.’ And then there came a 
whispering of lower voices, very penetrating and 
sweet, like the voices of women and children, who 
murmured and cried, ^ O father ! O brother ! O 
love ! O my child ! ’ The man who was the 
accused, yet who was the judge, listened; and his 
heart burned, and a longing arose within him for 
the face of the Father and the better way. But 
then there came a clang and clamor of sound on 
the other side ; and voices called out to him as 
comrade, as lover, as friend, and reminded him 
of the delights which once had been so sweet to 
him, and of the freedom he loved ; and boasted 
the right of man to seek what was pleasant and 
what was sweet, and flouted him as a coward 
whose aim was to save himself, and scorned him 
as a believer in old wives’ tales and superstitions 
that men had outgrown. And their voices were 
so vehement and full of passion that by times 


3 ^ 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


they mastered the others, so that it was as if a 
tempest raged round the soul which sat in the 
midst, and who was the offender and yet the 
judge of all. 

The two spectators watched the conflict, as 
those who .watch the trial upon which hangs a 
man’s life. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that 
she could not keep silent, and that there were 
things which she could tell him which no one 
knew but she. She put her hand upon the arm 
of the Sage and called to him, ‘ Speak you, speak 
you ! he will hear you ; and I too will speak, and 
he will not resist what we say.’ But even as she 
said this, eager and straining against her com- 
panion’s control, the strangest thing ensued. 
The man who was set there to judge himself and 
his life ; he who was the criminal, yet august 
upon his seat, to weigh all and give the decision ; 
he before whom all those great advocates were 
pleading, — a haze stole over his eyes. He was 
but a man, and he was weary, and subject to the 
sway of the little over the great, the moment 
over the life, which is the condition of man. 
While yet the judgment was not given or the 
issue decided, while still the pleadings were in 
his ears, in a moment his head dropped back 
upon his pillow, and he fell asleep. He slept like 


IN .THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


37 


a child, as if there was no evil, nor conflict, nor 
danger, nor questions, more than how best to 
rest when you are weary, in all the world. And 
straightway all was silent in the place. Those 
who had been conducting this great cause de- 
parted to other courts and tribunals, having done 
all that was permitted them to do. And the 
man slept, and when it was noon woke and re- 
membered no more. 

The Sage led the little Pilgrim forth in a great 
confusion, so that she could not speak for won- 
der. But he said, ‘ This sleep also was from the 
Father ; for the mind of the man was weary, and 
not able to form a judgment. It is adjourned 
until a better day.’ 

The little Pilgrim hung her head and cried, * I 
do not understand. Will not the Lord interfere ? 
Will not the Father make it clear to him? Is he 
the judge between good and evil? Is it all in 
his own hand?’ 

The Sage spoke softly, as if with awe. He said, 
* This is the burden of our nature, which is not 
like the angels. There is none in heaven or on 
earth that can take from him what is his right 
and great honor among the creatures of God. 
The Father respects that which He has made. 
He will force no child of His. And there is no 


38 THE LirrLE PILGRIM. 

haste with Him ; nor has it ever been fathomed 
among us how long He will wait, or if there is 
any end. The air is full of the coming and going 
of those who plead before the sons of men ; and 
sometimes in great misery and trouble there will 
be a cause won and a judgment recorded which 
makes the universe rejoice. And in everything 
at the end it is proved that our Lord’s way is 
the best, and that all can be accomplished in His 
name.’ 

The little Pilgrim went on her way in silence, 
knowing that the longing in her Heart which was 
to compel them to come in, like that king who 
sent to gather his guests from the highways and 
the hedges, could not be right, since it was not the 
Father’s way, yet confused in her soul, and full of 
an eager desire to go back and wake that man 
and tell him all that had been in her heart while 
she watched him sitting on his judgment-seat. 
But there came recollections wafted across her 
mind as by breezes of the past, of scenes in her 
earthly life when she had spoken without avail, 
when she had said all that was in her heart 
and failed, and done harm when she had meant 
to do good. And slowly it came upon her that 
her companion spoke the truth, and that no man 
can save his brother ; but each must sit and hear 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 


39 


the pleadings and pronounce that judgment which 
is for life or death. ‘ But oh/ she cried, ‘ how 
long and how bitter it is for those who love 
them, and must stand by and can give no aid ! * 
Then her companion unfolded to her the pa- 
tience of the Lord, and how He is not discour- 
aged, nor ever weary, but opens His great assizes 
year by year and day by day ; and how the cause 
was argued again, as she had seen it, before the 
souls of men, sometimes again and again and 
over and over, till the pleadings of the advocates 
carried conviction, and the judge perceived the 
truth and consented to it. He showed her that 
this was the great thing in human life, and that 
though it was not enough to make a man perfect, 
yet that he who sinned against his will was differ- 
ent from the man who sinned with his will ; and 
how in all things the choice of the man for good 
or evil was all in all. And he led her about the 
world so that she could see how everywhere the 
heavenly advocates were travelling, entering into 
the secret places of the souls, and pleading with 
each man to his face. And the little Pilgrim 
looked on with pitying and tender eyes, and it 
seemed to her that the heart of the judge, before 
whom that great question was debated, leaned 
mostly to the right, and acknowledged that the 


40 


THE LHTLE PILGRIM. 


way of the Lord was the best way; but either 
that sleep overpowered him and weariness, or the 
other voices deafened his ears, or something 
betrayed him that he forgot the reasons of the 
wise and the judgment of his own soul. At first 
it comforted her to see how something nobler in 
every man would answer to the pleadings ; and 
then her heart failed her, to perceive that notwith- 
standing this the judge would leave his seat with- 
out a decision, and all would end in vanity. 
‘ And oh, friend,’ she cried, ‘ what shall be done 
to those who see and yet refuse ? ’ — her heart 
being wrung by the disappointment and the fail- 
ure. But her companion smiled still, and he 
said, * They are the children of the Father. Can 
a woman forget her child that she should not 
have compassion on the son of her womb ? She 
may forget; yet will not He forget.’ And thus 
they went on and on. 

But time would not suffice to tell what these 
two pilgrims saw as they wandered among the 
v;ays of men. They saw poverty and misery and 
pain, which came of the evil which man had 
done upon the earth, and were his punishment, 
and could be cured by nothing but by the return 
of each to his Father, and the giving up of all 
self-worship and self-seeking and sin. But amid 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 4 1 

all the confusion and among those who had fallen 
the lowest they found not one who was forsaken, 
whose name the Father had forgotten, or v/ho 
was not made to pause in his appointed moment, 
and to sit upon his throne and hear the plead- 
ings before him of the great advocates of God, 
reasoning of temperance and righteousness and 
judgment to come. 

But once before they returned to their home, 
a great thing befell them ; and they beheld that 
court sit, and the pleadings made, for the last 
time upon earth, which was a sight more solemn 
and terrible than anything they had yet seen. 
They found themselves in a chamber where sat a 
man who had lived long and known both good 
and evil, and fulfilled many great offices, so that 
he was famed and honored among men. He 
was a man who was wise in all the learning of the 
earth, standing but a little way below those who 
have begun the higher learning in the world 
beyond, and lifting up his head as if he would 
reach the stars. The travellers stood by him 
in his beautiful house, which was as the palace 
of wisdom, and saw him in the midst of all 
his honors. The lamps were lit within, and 
the night was sweet without, breathing of rest 
and happy ease, and riches and knowledge, as 


42 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


if they would endure forever. And the man 
looked round on all he had, and all he had 
achieved, and everything which he possessed, to 
enjoy it. For of wisdom and of glory he had 
his fill, and his soul was yet strong to take plea- 
sure in what was his, and he looked around him 
like God, and said that everything was good ; 
so that the little Pilgrim gazed, and wondered 
whether this could indeed be one of the brethren 
of the earth, or if he was one who had wandered 
hither from another sphere. 

But as the thought arose, she heard, and lo ! 
the steps of the pleaders and the sound of their 
entry. They came slowly like a solemn proces- 
sion, more grave and awful in their looks than 
any she had seen, for they were great and the 
greatest of all, such as come forth but rarely 
when the last word is to be said. The words 
they said were few ; but they stood round him 
reminding him of all that had been, and of what 
must be, and of many things which were known 
but to God and him alone, and calling upon 
him yet once more before time should come to 
an end and life be lost. But the sound of their 
voices in his ear was but as some great strain of 
music which he had heard many times and knew 
and heeded not. He turned to the goods which 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 43 

he had laid up for many years, and all the knowl- 
edge he had stored, and said to himself, ‘ Soul, 
take thine ease.’ And to the heavenly advocates 
he smiled and replied that life was strong and 
wisdom the master of all. Then there came a 
chill and a shiver over all, as if the earth had been 
stopped in her career or the sun fallen from the 
sky ; and the little Pilgrim, looking on, could see 
the heavenly pleaders come forth with bowed 
heads and the door of hope shut to, and a whis- 
per which crept about from sea to sea and said, 
* In vain ! in vain ! ’ And as they went forth 
from the gates an icy breath swept in, and the 
voice of the Death-xA-ngel saying, ^ Thou fool, this 
night thy soul shall be required of thee ! ’ The 
sound went through her heart as if it had been 
pierced by a sword, and she gave a cry of an- 
guish, for she could not bear that a brother 
should be lost. But when she looked up at the 
face of her companion, though it was pale with 
the pity and the terror of that which had been 
thus accomplished, there was still upon it a 
smile ; and he said, ‘ Not yet ; not yet. The 
Father loves not less, but more than ever.’ 
friend,’ she cried, ‘ will there ever come a mo- 
ment when the Father will forget? Is there any 
place where He cannot go ? ’ 


44 


THE LITl’LE PILGRIM. 


Then he who was wise turned towards her, 
and a great light came upon his face ; and he 
said, ‘ We have searched the records, and heard 
all witnesses from the beginnings of time ; but 
we have never found the boundary of His mercy, 
and there is no country known to man that is 
without his presence. And never has it been 
known that He has shut His ear to those who 
called upon Him, or forgotten one who is His. 
The heavenly pleaders may be silenced, but 
never our Lord, who pleads for all ; and heaven 
and earth may forget, yet will He never forget 
who is the Father of all. And every child of 
His is to Him as if there was none other in the 
world.’ 

Then the little Pilgrim lifted her face and be- 
held that radiance which is over all, which is the 
love that lights the world, both angels and the 
great spheres above and the little brethren who 
stumble and struggle and weep ; and in that light 
there was no darkness at all, but everything shone 
as in the morning, sweet yet terrible, but ever 
clear and fair. And immediately, ere she was 
aware, the rough roads of the earth were left far 
behind, and she had returned to her place, and 
to her peaceful state, and to the work which had 
been given her, — to receive the wanderers and to 


IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 45 

bid them a happy welcome as the doors opened 
and they entered into their inheritance. And 
thus her soul was satisfied, though she knew now 
nothing more than she had known always, — that 
the eye of the Father is over all, and that He can 
neither forget nor forsake. 


11 . 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 

I. 

When the little Pilgrim had been thus permitted 
to see the secret workings of God in earthly places, 
and among the brethren who are still in the land 
of hope, — these being things which the angels 
desire to look into, and which are the subject of 
story and of song not only in the little world 
below, but in the great realms above, — her heart 
for a long time reposed and was satisfied, and 
asked no further question. For she had seen 
what the dealings of the Father were in the hearts 
of men, and how till the end came He did not 
cease to send His messengers to plead in^every 
heart, and to hold a court of justice that no man 
might be deceived, but each know whither his 
steps were tending, and what was the way of wis- 
dom. After this it was permitted to her to read 
in the archives of the heavenly country the story 
of one, who, neglecting all that the advocates of 
God could say, had found himself, when the little 
life was completed, not upon the threshold of a 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 47 

better country, but in the midst of the Land of 
Darkness, — that region in which the souls of men 
are left by God to their own devices, and the 
Father stands aloof, and hides His face and calls 
them not, neither persuades them more. Over 
this story the little Pilgrim had shed many tears ; 
for she knew well, being enlightened in her great 
simplicity by the heavenly wisdom, that it was 
pain and grief to the Father to turn away His 
face ; and that no one who has but the little heart 
of a man can imagine to himself what that sorrow 
is in the being of the great God. And a great 
awe came over her mind at the thought, which 
seemed well-nigh a blasphemy, that He could 
grieve ; yet in her heart, being His child, she 
knew that it was true. And her own little spirit 
throbbed through and through with longing and 
with desire to help those who were thus utterly 
lost. * And oh ! ’ she said, ‘ if I could but go ! 
There is nothing which could make a child afraid, 
save to see them suffer. What are darkness and 
terror when the Father is with you ? I am not 
afraid — if I might but go ! ’ And by reason of 
her often pleading, and of the thought that was 
ever in her mind, it was at last said that one of 
those who knew might instruct her, and show 
her by what way alone the travellers who come 


48 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


from that miserable land could approach and be 
admitted on high. 

' I know,’ she said, ‘ that between us and them 
there is a gulf fixed, and that they who would 
come from thence cannot come, neither can any 
one — * 

But here she stopped in great dismay, for it 
seemed that she had thus answered her own 
longing and prayer. 

The guide who had come for her smiled upon 
her and said, ^ But that was before the Lord had 
ended His work. And now all the paths are 
free wherever there is a mountain-pass or a 
river-ford ; the roads are all blessed, and they are 
all open, and no barriers for those who will.’ 

* Oh,’ she cried, ‘dear friend, is that true for 
all?’ 

He looked away from her into the depths of 
the lovely air, and he replied : ‘ Little sister, our 
faith is without bounds, but not our knowledge. 
I who speak to you am no more than a man. 
The princes and powers that are in high places 
know more than I ; but if there be any place 
where a heart can stir and cry out to the Father 
and He take no heed, — if it be only in a groan, 
if it be only with a sigh, — I know not that 
place, yet many depths I know.’ He put out 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 49 

his hand and took hers after a pause ; and then 
he said, * There are some who are stumbling upon 
the dark mountains. Come and see.’ 

As they passed along, there were many who 
paused to look at them, for he had the mien of 
a great prince, a lord among men ; and his face 
still bore the trace of sorrow and toil, and there 
was about him an awe and wonder which was 
more than could be put in words. So that those 
who saw him understood as he went by, not who 
he was, nor what he had been, but that he had 
come out of great tribulation, of sorrow beyond 
the sorrows of men. The sweetness of the heav- 
enly country had soothed away his care, and 
taken the cloud from his face ; but he was as yet 
unaccustomed to smile, — though when he re- 
membered and looked round him and saw that 
all was well, his countenance lightened like the 
morning sky, and his eyes woke up in splendor 
like the sun rising. The little Pilgrim did not 
know who her brother was, but yet gave thanks 
to God for him, she knew not why. 

How far they went cannot be estimated in 
words, for distance matters little in that place ; 
but at the end they came to a path which sloped 
a little downwards to the edge of a delightful 
moorland country, all brilliant with the hues 


4 


50 THE LITl'LE PILGRIM. 

of the mountain flowers. It was like a flowery 
plateau high among the hills, in a region where 
are no frosts to check the glow of the flowers, or 
scorch the grass. It spread far around in hollows 
and ravines and softly swelling hills, with the rush 
over them of a cheerful breeze full of mountain 
scents and sounds ; and high above them rose 
the mountain heights of the celestial world, veiled 
in those blue breadths of distance which are 
heaven itself when man’s fancy ascends to them 
from the low world at their feet. All the little 
earth can do in color and mists, and travelling 
shadows fleet as the breath, and the sweet stead- 
fast shining of the sun, was there, but with a ten- 
fold splendor. They rose up into the sky, every 
peak and jagged rock all touched with the light 
and the smile of God, and every little blossom on 
the turf rejoicing in the warmth and freedom and 
peace. The heart of the little Pilgrim swelled, 
and she cried out, * There is nothing so glorious 
as the everlasting hills. Though the valleys and 
the plains are sweet, they are not like them. 
They say to us, lift up your heart ! ’ 

Her guide smiled, but he did not speak. His 
smile was full of joy, but grave, like that of a man 
whose thoughts are bent on other things ; and 
he pointed where the road wound downwards by 


ON THE DARK MOUNIAINS. 5 1 

the feet of these triumphant hills. She kept her 
eyes upon them as she moved along. Those 
heights rose into the very sky, but bore upon 
them neither snow nor storm. Here and there a 
whiteness like a film of air rounded out over a 
peak ; and she recognized that it was one of those 
angels who travel far and wide with God’s com- 
missions, going to the other worlds that are in 
the firmament as in a sea. The softness of these 
films of white was like the summer clouds that 
she used to watch in the blue of the summer sky 
in the little world which none of its children can 
cease to love ; and she wondered now whether it 
might not sometimes have been the same dear 
angels whose flight she had watched unknowing, 
higher than thought could soar or knowledge 
penetrate. Watching those floating heavenly 
messengers, and the heights of the great miracu- 
lous mountains rising up into the sky, the little 
Pilgrim ceased to think whither she was going, 
although she knew from the feeling of the ground 
under her feet that she was descending, still soft- 
ly, but more quickly than at first, until she was 
brought to herself by the sensation of a great 
wind coming in her face, cold as from a sudden 
vacancy. She turned her head quickly from 
gazing above to what was before her, and started 


52 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


with a cry of wonder. For below lay a great 
gulf of darkness, out of which rose at first some 
shadowy peaks and shoulders of rock, all falling 
away into a gloom which eyes accustomed to the 
sunshine could not penetrate. Where she stood 
was the edge of the light, — before her feet lay a 
line of shadow slowly darkening out of daylight 
into twilight, and beyond into that measureless 
blackness of night ; and the wind in her face was 
like that which comes from a great depth below 
of either sea or land, — the sweep of the current 
which moves a vast atmosphere in which there 
is nothing to break its force. The little Pilgrim 
was so startled by these unexpected sensations 
that she caught the arm of her guide in her sud- 
den alarm, and clung to him, lest she should fall 
into the terrible darkness and the deep abyss below. 

^ There is nothing to fear,’ he said ; ^ there is a 
way. To us who are above there is no danger 
at all ; and it is the way of life to those who are 
below.’ 

' I see nothing,’ she cried, ‘ save a few points 
of rock, and the precipice, — the pit which is 
below. Oh, tell me what is it? Is it where the 
fires are, and despair dwells? I did not think 
that was true. Let me go and hide myself and 
not see it, for I never thought that was true.’ 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 53 

' Look again/ said the guide. 

The little Pilgrim shrank into a crevice of the 
rock, and uncovering her eyes, gazed into the 
darkness ; and because her nature was soft and 
timid there came into her mind a momentary 
fear. Her heart flew to the Father’s footstool, 
and cried out to Him, not any question or prayer, 
but only ‘ Father, Father ! ’ and this made her 
stand erect, and strengthened her eyes, so that 
the gloom even of hell could no more make her 
afraid. Her guide stood beside with a steadfast 
countenance, which was grave, yet full of a solemn 
light. And then all at once he lifted up his voice, 
which was sonorous and sweet like the sound of 
an organ, and uttered a shout so great and re- 
sounding that it seemed to come back in echoes 
from every hollow and hill. What he said the 
little Pilgrim could not understand ; but when 
the echoes had died away and silence followed, 
something came up through the gloom, — a sound 
that was far, far away, and faint in the long dis- 
tance j a voice that sounded no more than an 
echo. When he who had called out heard it, he 
turned to the little Pilgrim with eyes that were 
liquid with love and pity ; ^ Listen,’ he said, ‘ there 
is some one on the way.’ 

‘ Can we help them ? ’ cried the little Pilgrim ; 


54 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


her heart bounded forward like a bird. She had 
no fear. The darkness and the horrible way 
seemed as nothing to her. She stretched out 
her arms as if she would have seized the travel- 
ler and dragged him up into the light. 

He who was by her side shook his head, but 
with a smile. ^ We can but wait,’ he said. * It 
is forbidden that any one should help ; for this 
is too terrible and strange to be touched even by 
the hands of angels. It is like nothing that you 
know.’ 

‘ I have been taught many things,’ said the lit- 
tle Pilgrim, humbly. * I have been taken back 
to the dear earth, where I saw the judgment- 
seat, and the pleaders who spoke, and the man 
who was the judge, and how each is judge for 
himself.’ 

‘ You have seen the place of hope,’ said her 
guide, ^ where the Father is and the Son, and 
where no man is left to his own ways. But there 
is another country, where there is no voice either 
from God or from good spirits, and where those 
who have refused are left to do as seems good in 
their own eyes.’ 

‘ I have read,’ said the little Pilgrim, with a sob, 
‘of one. who went from city to city and found 
no rest.’ 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


S5 

Her guide bowed his head very gravely in 
assent. ‘ They go from place to place,’ he said, 
* if haply they might find one in which it is pos- 
sible to live. Whether it is order or whether it 
is license, it is according to their own will. They 
try all things, ever looking for something which 
the soul may endure. And new cities are 
founded from time to time, and a new endeavor 
ever and ever to live, only to live. For even 
when happiness fails and content, and work is 
vanity and effort is naught, it is something if a 
man can but endure to live.’ 

The little Pilgrim looked at him with wistful 
eyes, for what he said was beyond her understand- 
ing. ‘ For us,’ she said, ‘ life is nothing but joy. 
Oh, brother, is there then condemnation ? ’ 

‘ It is no condemnation ; it is what they have 
chosen, — it is to follow their own way. There 
is no longer any one to interfere. The pleaders 
are all silent ; there is no voice in the heart. 
The Father hinders therri not, nor helps them, 
but leaves them.’ He shivered as if with cold ; 
and the little Pilgrim felt that there breathed from 
the depths of darkness at their feet an icy wind 
which touched her hands and feet and chilled 
her heart. She shivered too, and drew close to 
the rock for shelter, and gazed at the awful cliffs 


S6 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


rising out of the gloom, and the paths that dis- 
appeared at her feet, leading down, down into 
that abyss ; and her heart failed within her to 
think that below there were souls that suffered, 
and that the Father and the Son were not there. 
He, the All-loving, the All-present, — how could 
it be that He was not there ? 

‘ It is a mystery,’ said the man who was her 
guide, and who answered to her thought. ‘ When 
I set my foot upon this blessed land I knew that 
there, even there. He is. But in that country 
His face is hidden, and even to name His name 
is anguish, — for then only do men understand 
what has befallen them, who can say that name 
no more.’ 

‘That is death indeed,’ she cried; and the 
wind came up silent with a wild breath that was 
more awful than the shriek of a storm ; for it was 
like the stifled utterances of all those miserable 
ones who have no voice to call upon God, and 
know not where He is nor how to pronounce 
His name. 

‘ Ah,’ said he, ‘ if we could have known what 
death was ! We had believed in death in the 
time of all great illusions, in the time of the gentle 
life, in the day of hope. But in the land of dark- 
ness there are no illusions ; and every man knows 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


57 


that though he should fling himself into the fur- 
nace of the gold, or be cut to pieces by the 
knives, or trampled under the dancers’ feet, yet 
that it will be but a little more pain, and that 
death is not, nor any escape that way.’ 

‘ Oh, brother ! ’ she cried, ‘ you have been 
there ! ’ 

He turned and looked upon her; and she 
read as in a book things which tongue of man 
cannot say, — the anguish and the rapture, the 
unforgotten pang of the lost, the joy of one who 
has been delivered after hope was gone. 

‘ I have been there ; and now I stand in the 
light, and have seen the face of the Lord, and 
can speak His blessed name.’ And with that he 
burst forth into a great melodious cry, which was 
not like that which he had sent into the dark 
depths below, but mounted up like the sounding 
of silver trumpets and all joyful music, giving a 
voice to the sweet air and the fresh winds which 
blew about the hills of God. But the words he 
said were not comprehensible to his companion, 
for they were in the sweet tongue which is between 
the Father and His child, and known to none but 
to them alone. Yet only to hear the sound was 
enough to transport all who listened, and to make 
them know what joy is and peace. The little 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


58 

Pilgrim wept for happiness to hear her brother’s 
voice ; but in the midst of it her ear was caught 
by another sound, — a faint cry which tingled up 
from the darkness like a note of a muffled bell, — 
and she turned from the joy and the light, and 
flung out her arms and her little voice towards 
him who was stumbling upon the dark mountains. 
And ‘ Come,’ she cried, ^ come, come ! ’ forget- 
ting all things save that one was there in the 
darkness, while here was light and peace. 

^ It is nearer,’ said her guide, hearing, even in 
the midst of his triumph song, that faint and dis- 
tant cry ; and he took her hand and drew her 
back, for she was upon the edge of the precipice, 
gazing into the black depths, which revealed 
nothing save the needles of the awful rocks and 
sheer descents below. ‘ The moment will come,’ 
he said, ‘ when we can .help ; but it is not 
yet.’ 

Her heart was in the depths with him who was 
coming, whom she knew not save that he was 
coming, toiling upwards towards the light ; and 
it seemed to her that she could not contain her- 
self, nor wait till he should appear, nor draw back 
from the edge, where she might hold out her 
hands to him and save him some single step, if 
no more. But presently her heart returned to 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 59 

her brother who stood by her side, and who was 
delivered, and with whom it was meet that all 
should rejoice, since he had fought and con- 
quered, and reached the land of light. ^ Oh,’ she 
said, ‘ it is long to wait while he is still upon these 
dark mountains. Tell me how it came to you to 
find the way.’ 

He turned to her with a smile, though his ear 
too was intent, and his heart fixed upon the trav- 
eller in the darkness, and began to tell her his 
tale to beguile the time of waiting, and to hold 
within bounds the pity that filled her heart. He 
told her that he was one of many who came from 
the pleasant earth together, out of many coun- 
tries and tongues ; and how they had gone here 
and there each man to a different city ; and how 
they had crossed each other’s paths coming and 
going, yet never found rest for their feet ; and 
how there was a little relief in every change, and 
one sought that which another left ; and how 
they wandered round and round over all the vast 
and endless plain, until at length in revolt from 
every other way, they had chosen a spot upon the 
slope of a hill, and built there a new city, if per- 
haps something better might be found there ; 
and how it had been built with towers and high 
walls, and great gates to shut it in, so that no 


6o 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Stranger should find entrance ; and how every 
house was a palace, with statues of marble, and 
pillars so precious with beautiful work, and arches 
so lofty and so fair that they were better than 
had they been made of gold, — yet gold was not 
wanting, nor diamond stones that shone like 
stars, and everything more beautiful and stately 
than heart could conceive. 

^And while we built and labored,’ he said, 
' our hearts were a little appeased. And it was 
called the city of Art, and all was perfect in it, so 
that nothing had ever been seen to compare with 
it for beauty ; and we walked upon the battle- 
ments and looked over the plain and viewed the 
dwellers there, who were not as we. And we 
went on to fill every room and every hall with 
carved work in stone and beaten gold, and pic- 
tures and woven tissues that were like the sun- 
gleams and the rainbows of the pleasant earth. 
And crowds came around envying us and seek- 
ing to enter ; but we closed our gates and drove 
them away. And it was said among us that life 
would now become as of old, and everything 
would go well with us as in the happy days.’ 

The little Pilgrim looked up into his face, and 
for pity of his pain (though it was past) almost 
wished that that could have come true. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


6i 


‘ But when the work was done,’ he said, and 
for a moment no more. 

‘ Oh, brother ! when the work was done ? ’ 

* You do not know what it is,’ he said, ‘ to be 
ten times more powerful and strong, to want no 
rest, to have fire in your veins, to have the crav- 
ing in your heart above everything that is known 
to man. When the work was done, we glared 
upon each other with hungry eyes, and each man 
wished to thrust forth his neighbor and possess 
all to himself. And then we ceased to take 
pleasure in it, notwithstanding that it was beauti- 
ful j and there were some who would have beaten 
down the walls and built them anew ; and some 
would have torn up the silver and gold, and 
tossed out the fair statues and the adornments in 
scorn and rage to the meaner multitudes below. 
And we who were the workers began to contend 
one against another to satisfy the gnawings of 
the rage that was in our hearts. For we had 
deceived ourselves, thinking once more that all 
would be well ; while all the time nothing was 
changed, and we were but as the miserable ones 
that rushed from place to place.’ 

Though all this wretchedness was over and 
past, it was so terrible to think of that he paused 
and was silent awhile. And the little Pilgrim, 


62 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


put her hand upon his arm in her great pity, to 
soothe him, and almost forgot that there was 
another traveller not yet delivered upon the way. 
But suddenly at that moment there came up 
through the depths the sound of a fall, as if the 
rocks had crashed from a hundred peaks, yet 
all muffled by the great distance, and echoing all 
around in faint echoes, and rumblings as in the 
bosom of the earth ; and mingled with them 
were far-off cries, so faint and distant that human 
ears could not have heard them, like the cries of 
lost children, or creatures wavering and straying 
in the midst of the boundless night. This time 
she who was watching upon the edge of the 
gloom would have flung herself forward altogether 
into it, had not her companion again restrained 
her. ‘ One has stumbled upon the mountains ; 
but listen, listen, little sister, for the voices are 
many,’ he said. ^ It is not one who comes, but 
many ; and though he falls he will rise again.’ 

And once more he shouted aloud, bending 
down against the rocks, so that they caught his 
voice ; and the sweet air from the skies came 
behind him in a great gust like a summer storm, 
and carried it into all the echoing hollows of the 
hills. And the little Pilgrim knew that he shouted 
to all who came to take courage and not to fear. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 63 

And this time there rose upwards many faint and 
wavering sounds that did not stir the air, but 
made it tingle with a vibration of the great dis- 
tance and the unknown depths ; and then again 
all was still. They stood for a time intent upon 
the great silence and darkness which swept up all 
sight and sound, and then the little Pilgrim once 
more turned her eyes towards her companion, 
and he began again his wonderful tale. 

‘ He who had been the first to found the city, 
and who was the most wise of any, though the 
rage was in him like all the rest, and the disap- 
pointment and the anguish, yet would not yield. 
And he called upon us for another trial, to make a 
picture which should be the greatest that ever was 
painted ; and each one of us, small or great, who 
had been of that art in the dear life, took share 
®in the rivalry and the emulation, so that on every 
side there was a fury and a rush, each man with 
his band of supporters about him struggling and 
swearing that his was the best. Not that they 
loved the work or the beauty of the work, but to 
keep down the gnawing in their hearts, and to 
have something for which they could still fight 
and storm, and for a little forget. 

‘ I was one who had been among the highest.’ 
He spoke not with pride, but in a low and deep 


64 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


voice which went to the heart of the listener, and 
brought the tears to her eyes. It was not like 
that of the painter in the heavenly city, who re- 
joiced and was glad in his work, though he was 
but as a humble workman, serving those who 
were more great. But this man had the sorrow 
of greatness in him, and the wonder of those who 
can do much, to find how little they can do. 

‘ My veins,’ he said, ‘ were filled with fire, and 
my heart with the rage of a great desire to be 
first, as I had been first in the days of the gentle 
life. And I made my plan to be greater than all 
the rest, to paint a vast picture like the world, 
filled with all the glories of life. In a moment I 
had conceived what I should do, for my strength 
was as that of a hundred men ; and none of us 
could rest or breathe till it was accomplished, but 
flung ourselves upon this new thing as upon water* 
in the desert. Oh, my little sister, how can I 
tell you ; what words can show forth this wonder- 
ful thing? I stood before my great canvas with 
all those who were of my faction pressing upon 
me, noting every touch I made, shouting, and 
saying, “ He will win ! he will win ! ” when lo ! 
there came a mystery and a wonder into that 
place. I had arranged men and women before 
me according to all the devices of art, to serve 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 65 

as my models, that nature might be in my picture, 
and life ; but when I looked I saw them not, for 
between them and me had come a Face.’ 

The eyes of the little Pilgrim dropped with 
tears. She held out her hands towards him with 
a sympathy which no words could say. 

‘ Often had I painted that Face in the other 
life, sometimes with awe and love, sometimes 
with scorn, — for hire and for bread, and for pride 
and for fame. It is pale with suffering, yet 
smiles ; the eyes have tears in them, yet light 
below, and all that is there is full of tenderness 
and of love. There is a crown upon the brow, 
but it is made of thorns. It came before me 
suddenly, while I stood there, with the men 
shouting close to my ear urging me on, and fierce 
fury in my heart, and the rage to be first, and to 
forget. Where my models were, there it came. 
I could not see them, nor my groups that I had 
planned, nor anything but that Face. I called 
out to my men, Who has done this? ” but they 
heard me not, nor understood me, for to them 
there was nothing there save the figures I had 
set, — a living picture all ready for the painter’s 
hand. 

^ I could not bear it, the sight of that Face. I 
flung my tools away ; I covered my eyes with 


66 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


my hands. But those who were about me 
pressed on me and threatened ; they pulled my 
hands from my eyes. “ Coward ! ” they cried, 
and Traitor, to leave us in the lurch ! Now 
will the other side win and we be shamed. 
Rather tear him limb from limb, fling him from 
the walls ! ’’ The crowd came round me like an 
angry sea ; they forced my pencils back into my 
hands. “ Work,” they cried, “ or we will tear 
you limb from limb.” For though they were 
upon my side, it was for rivalry, and not out of 
any love for me.’ He paused for a moment, for 
his heart was yet full of the remembrance, and of 
joy that it was past. 

‘ I looked again,’ he said, ‘ and still it was 
there. O Face divine, — the eyes all wet with 
pity, the lips all quivering with love ! And 
neither pity nor love belonged to that place, nor 
any succor, nor the touch of a brother, nor the 
voice of a friend. Paint,” they cried, “ or we 
will tear you limb from limb ! ” and fire came 
into my heart. I pushed them from me on 
every side with the strength of a giant. And 
then I flung it on the canvas, crying I know not 
what, — not to them, but to Him. Shrink not 
from me, little sister, for I blasphemed. I called 
Him Impostor, Deceiver, Galilean ; and stih 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 67 

with all my might, with all the fury of my soul, I 
set Him there for every man to see, not knowing 
what I did. Everything faded from me but that 
Face ; I saw it alone. The crowd came round 
me with shouts and threats to drag me away, but 
I took no heed. They were silenced, and fled 
and left me alone, but I knew nothing ; nor 
when they came back with others and seized me, 
and flung me forth from the gates, was I aware 
what I had done. They cast me out and left 
me upoii the wild without a shelter, without a 
companion, storming and raving at them as they 
did at me. They dashed the great gates behind 
me with a clang, and shut me out. And I 
turned and defied them, and cursed them as 
they cursed me, not knowing what I had done.’ 

‘ Oh, brother ! ’ murmured the little Pilgrim, 
kneeling, as if she had accompanied him all the 
way with her prayers, but could not now say 
more. 

^Then I saw again,’ he went on, not hearing 
her in the great force of that passion and wonder 
which was still in his mind, ‘that vision in the 
air. Wherever I turned, it was there, — His eyes 
wet with pity, His countenance shining with love. 
Whence came He ? What did He in that place, 
where love is not, where pity comes not ? ’ 


68 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


^ Friend,’ she cried, ‘ to seek you there ! * 

Her companion bowed his head in deep 
humbleness and joy. And again he lifted his 
great voice and intoned his song of praise. The 
little Pilgrim understood it, but by fragments, — a 
line that was more simple that came here and 
there. And it praised the Lord that where the 
face of the Father was hidden ; and where love 
was not, nor compassion, nor brother had pity 
on brother, nor friend knew the face of friend ; 
and all succor was stayed, and every help for- 
bidden, — yet still in the depths of the darkness 
and in the heart of the silence, He who could 
not forget nor forsake was there. The voice of 
the singer was like that of one of the great 
angels, and many of the inhabitants of the 
blessed country began to appear, gathering in 
crowds to hear this great music, as the little 
sister thought ; and she herself listened with all 
her heart, wondering and seeing on the faces of 
those dear friends whom she did not know an 
expectation and a hope which were strange to 
her, though she could always understand their 
love and their joy. 

But in the middle of this great song there 
came again another sound to her ear, — a sound 
which pierced through the music like lightning 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


69 


through the sky, though it was but the cry of one 
distraught and fainting ; a cry out of the depths 
not even seeking help, a cry of distress too ter- 
rible to be borne. Though it was scarcely 
louder than a sigh, she heard it through all the 
music, and turned and flew to the edge of the 
precipice whence it came. And immediately 
the darkness seemed to move as with a pulse in 
a great throb, and something came through the 
wind with a rush, as if part of the mountain had 
fallen — and lo ! at her feet lay one- who had 
flung himself forward, his arms stretched out, his 
face to the ground, as if he had seized and 
grasped in an agony the very soil. He lay there, 
half in the light and half in the shadow, gripping 
the rocks with his hands, burrowing into the cool 
herbage above and the mountain flowers ; cling- 
ing, catching hold, despairing, yet seizing every- 
thing he could grasp, — the tender grass, the roll- 
ing stones. The little Pilgrim flung herself down 
upon her knees by his side, and grasped his arm 
to help, and cried aloud for aid ; and the song 
of the singer ceased, and there was silence for a 
moment, so that the breath of the fugitive could 
be heard panting, and his strong struggle to drag 
himself altogether out of that abyss of darkness 
below. She thought of nothing, nor heard nor 


70 


THE LITfLE PILGRIM. 


saw anything but the strain of that last effort 
which seemed to shake the very mountains ; 
until suddenly there seemed to rise all around 
the hum and murmur as of a great multitude, 
and looking up, she saw every little hill and hol- 
low, and the glorious plain beyond as far as eye 
could see, crowded with countless throngs ; and 
on the high peaks above, in the full shining of 
the sun, came bands of angels, and of those 
great beings who are more mighty than men. 
And the eyes of all were fixed upon the man 
who lay as one dead upon the ground, and from 
the lips of all came a low murmur of rapture and 
delight, that spread like the hum of the bees, 
like the cooing of the doves, like the voice of a 
mother over her child ; and the same sound 
came to her own lips unawares, and she mur- 
mured ‘ welcome ’ and ‘ brother ’ and ‘ friend,’ 
not knowing what she said ; and looking to the 
others, whispered, ‘ Hush ! for he is weak ’ — 
and all of them answered with tears, with ‘ hush ’ 
and ‘ welcome ’ and ‘ friend ’ and * brother ’ and 
‘beloved,’ and stood smiling and weeping for 
joy. And presently there came softly into the 
blessed air the ringing of the great silver bells, 
which sound only for victory and great happi- 
ness and gain. And there was joy in heaven ; 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 71 

and every world was stirred. And throughout 
the firmament, and among all the lords and 
princes of life, it was known that the impossible 
had become true, and the name of the Lord had 
proved enough, and love had conquered even 
despair. 

‘ Hush ! ’ she said, ‘ for he is weak.’ And be- 
cause it was her blessed serv'ice to receive those 
who had newly arrived in that heavenly country, 
and to soothe and help them so that like new- 
born children they should be able to endure and 
understand the joy, she knelt by him on the 
ground and tried to rouse him, though with trem- 
bling, for never before had she stood by one who 
was newly come out of the land of despair. * Let 
the sun come upon him,’ she said ; * let him feel 
the brightness of the light,’ — and with her soft 
hands she drew him out of the shade of the twi- 
light to where the brightness of the day fell like 
a smile upon the flowers. And then at last he 
stirred, and turned round and opened his eyes, 
for the genial warmth had reached him. But his 
eyes were heavy and dazzled with the light ; and 
he looked round him as if confused from beneath 
his heavy eyelids. ‘ And where am I ? ’ he said ; 
‘ and who are you ? ’ ^ Oh, brotheV ! ’ said the 

little Pilgrim, and told him in his ear the name 


72 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


of that heavenly place, and many comforting and 
joyful things. But he understood her not, and 
still gazed about him with dazzled ' eyes, for his 
face was still towards the darkness, and fear was 
upon him lest this place should prove no more 
than a delusion, and the darkness return, and 
the anguish and pain. 

Then he who had been her guide, and told 
her his tale, came forward and stood by the side 
of the newly come. And ‘ Brother,’ he said, 
‘ look upon me, for you know me, and know 
from whence I come.’ 

The stranger looked dimly with his heavy eyes. 
And he replied, ‘ It is as a dream that I know 
you, and know from whence you came. And the 
dream is sweet to lie here, and think that I am 
at peace. Deceive me not, oh ! deceive me 
not with dreams that are sweet ; but let me go 
upon my way and find the end, if there is any 
end, or if any good can be.’ 

* What shall we do,’ cried the little Pilgrim, ^ to 
persuade him that he has arrived and is safe, and 
dreams no more ? ’ 

And they stood round him wondering, and 
troubled to find how little they could do for him, 
and that the light entered so slowly into his soul. 
And he lay on the bank like one left for death. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


73 


SO weary and so worn with all the horrors of the 
way that his heart was faint within him, and peace 
itself seemed to him but an illusion. He lay 
silent while they watched and waited, then turned 
himself upon the grass, which was as soft to the 
weary wayfarer as angels’ wings ; and then the 
sunshine caught his eye, as if he had been a new- 
born babe awakened to the light. He put out 
his hand to it, and touched the ground that was 
golden with those heavenly rays, and gathered 
himself up till he felt it upon his face, and opened 
wide his dazzled eyes, then shaded them with 
trembling hands, and said to himself, ^ It is the 
sun ; it is the sun ! ’ But still he did not dare to 
believe that the danger and the toil were over, 
nor could he listen, nor understand what the 
brethren said. While they all stood around and 
watched and waited, wondering each how the 
new-comer should be satisfied, there suddenly 
arose a sound with which they were all acquainted, 
— the sound of One approaching. The faces of 
the blessed were all around like the stars in the 
sky, — multitudes whom none could count or 
reckon ; but He who came was seen of none, 
save him to whom He came. The weary man 
rose up with a great cry, then fell again upon his 
knees, and flung his arms wide in the wonder and 


74 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


the joy. And ‘ Lord/ he cried, ‘ was it Thou ? 
Lord, it was Thou ! Thine was the face. And 
Thou hast brought me here ! ’ 

The watchers knew not what the other voice 
said, for what is said to each new-comer is the 
secret of the Lord. But when they looked again, 
the man stood upright upon his feet, and his face 
was full of light,; and though he trembled with 
weakness and with weariness, and with exceeding 
joy, yet the confusion and the fear were gone 
from him. And he had no longer any suspicion 
of them, as if they might betray him, but held out 
his trembling hands and cried, ‘Friends, — you 
are friends? and you spoke to me and called 
me brother ? And am I here ? And am I here ? ^ 
For to name the name of that blessed country 
was not needful any longer, now that he had seen 
the Lord. 

Then a great band and guard of honor, of 
angels and principalities and powers, surrounded 
him, and led him away to the holy city, and to 
the presence of the Father, who had permitted 
and had not forbidden what the Lord had done. 
And all the companies of the blessed followed 
after with wonder and gladness and triumph, be- 
cause the great love of the Lord had drawn out of 
the darkness even those who were beyond hope. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


75 


II. 

The little Pilgrim saw them depart from her 
with love and joy, and sat down upon the rocky 
edge and sang her own song of peace ; for her 
fear was gone, and she was ready to do her ser- 
vice there upon the verge of the precipice as 
among the flowers and the sunshine, where her 
own place was. ‘ From the depths,’ she said, 
‘ they come, they come ! — from the land of dark- 
ness, where no love is. For Thy love, O Lord, 
is more than the darkness and the depths. And 
where hope is not, there Thy pity goes.’ She 
sat and sang to herself like a happy child, for her 
heart had fathomed the awful gloom which baffles 
angels and men ; and she had learned that though 
hope comes to an end and light fails, and the feet 
of the ambassadors are stayed on the mountains, 
and the voice of the pleaders is silenced, and 
darkness sw’allows up the world, yet Love never 
fails. As she sang, the pity in her heart grew so 
strong, and her desire to help the lost, that she 
rose up and stepped forth into the awful gloom, 
and had it been permitted, in her gentleness and 
weakness would have gone forth to the deeps and 
had no fear. 


76 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


The ground gave way under her feet, so dread- 
ful was the precipice : but though her heart beat 
with the horror of it, and the whirl of the descent 
and the darkness which blinded her eyes, yet had 
she no hurt. And when her foot touched the 
rock, and that sinking sense of emptiness and 
vacancy ceased, she looked around and saw the 
path by which that traveller had come. For 
when the eyes are used to the darkness, the hor- 
ror of the gloom was no longer like a solid thing, 
but moved into shades of darker and less dark, 
so that she saw where the rocks stood, and how 
they sank with edges that cut like swords down 
and ever down into the abysses ; and how here 
a deep ravine was rent between them, and there 
were breaks and scars as though some one had 
caught the jagged points with wounded hand or 
foot, struggling up the perpendicular surface 
towards the little ray of light, like a tiny star 
which shone as on immeasurable heights to show 
where life was. As she travelled deeper and 
deeper, it was a wonder to see how far that little 
ray penetrated down and down through gulfs of 
darkness, blue and cold like the shimmer of a dia- 
mond, and even when it could be seen no more, 
sent yet a shadowy refraction, a line of something 
less black than the darkness, a lightening amid 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 77 

the gloom, a something indefinable which was 
hope. The rocks were more cruel than imagina- 
tion could conceive, — sometimes pointed and 
sharp like knives, sometimes smooth and upright 
as a wall with no hold for the climber, sometimes 
moving under the touch, with stones that rolled 
and crushed the bleeding feet ; and though the 
solid masses were distinguishable from the lighter 
darkness of the air, yet it could only be in grop- 
ing that the travellers by that way could find 
where any foothold was. The traveller who came 
from above, and who had the privilege of her 
happiness, sank down as if borne on wings, yet 
needed all her courage not to be afraid of the 
awful rocks that rose all above and around her, 
perpendicular in the gloom. And the great blast 
of an icy wind swept upwards like something 
flying upon great wings, so tremendous was the 
force of it, whirling from the depths below, sucked 
upwards by the very warmth of the life above ; so 
that the little Pilgrim herself caught at the rocks 
that she might not be swept again towards the 
top, or dashed against the stony pinnacles that 
stood up on every side. She was glad when she 
found a little platform under her feet for a mo- 
ment where she could rest, and also because she 
had come, not from curiosity to see that gulf, but 


78 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


with the hope and desire to meet some one to 
whom she could be of a little comfort or help in 
the terrors of the way. 

While she stood for a moment to get her 
breath, she became sensible that some living 
thing was near ; arid putting out her hand she 
felt that there was round her something that was 
like a bastion upon a fortified wall, and immedi- 
ately a hand touched hers, and a soft voice said, 
‘ Sister, fear not ! for this is the watch-tower, and 
I am one of those who keep the way.’ She had 
started and trembled indeed, not that she feared, 
but because the delicate fabric of her being was 
such that every movement of the wind, and even 
those that were instinctive and belonged to the 
habits of another life, betrayed themselves in her. 
And ^ Oh,’ she said, ‘ I knew not that there were 
any watch-towers, or any one to help, but came 
because my heart called me, if perhaps I might 
hold out my hand in the darkness, and be of use 
where there was no light.’ 

‘Come and stand by me,’ said the watcher; 
and the little Pilgrim saw that there was a white- 
ness near to her, out of which slowly shaped the 
face of a fair and tender woman, whom she 
knew not, but loved. And though they could 
scarcely see each other, yet they knew each 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 79 

‘Pther for sisters, and kissed and took comfort 
together, holding each other’s hands in the midst 
of the awful gloom. And the little Pilgrim ques- 
tioned in low and hushed tones, ‘ Is it to help 
that you are here?’ 

‘ To help when that may be ; but rather to 
watch, and to send the news and make it known 
that one is coming, that the bells of joy may 
be sounded, and all the blessed may rejoice.’ 

‘Oh,’ said the little Pilgrim, ‘tell me your 
name, that I may do you honor, — for to gain 
such high promotion can be given only to the 
great who are made perfect, and to those who 
love most.’ 

‘ I am not great,’ said the watcher ; ‘ but the 
Lord, who considers all, has placed me here, that 
I may be the first to see when one comes who is 
in the dark places below. And also because 
there are some who say that love is idolatry, and 
that the Father will not have us long for our 
own, therefore am I permitted to wait and 
watch and think the time not long for the love 
I bear him. For he is mine ; and when he 
comes I will ascend with him to the dear coun- 
try of the light,^ and some other who loves 
enough will be promoted in my place.’ 

‘ I am not worthy,’ said the little Pilgrim. ‘ It 


8o 


THE LI'ITLE PILGRIM. 


is a great promotion ; but oh, that we might be 
permitted to help, to put out a hand, or to clear 
the way ! ’ 

‘ Nay, my little sister,’ said the watcher, ‘ but 
patience must have its perfect work ; and for 
those who are coming help is secret. They must 
not see it nor know it, for the land of darkness 
is beyond hope. The Father will not force the 
will of any creature He has made, for He re- 
spects us in our nature, which is His image. 
And when a man will not, and will not till the 
day is over, what can be done for him ? He is 
left to his will, and is permitted to do it as it 
seems good in his eyes. A man’s will is great, 
for it is the gift of God. But the Lord, who 
cannot rest while one is miserable, still goes 
secretly to them, for His heart yearns after them. 
And by times they will see His face, or some 
thought of old will seize upon them. And some 
will say, “ To perish upon the dark mountains is 
better than to live here.” And I have seen,’ 
said the watcher, ‘that the Lord will go with 
them all the way — but secretly, so that they 
cannot see Him. And though it grieves His 
heart not to help, yet will He not, — for they have 
become the creatures of their own will, and by 
that must they attain.’ She put out her hand to 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


8l 


the new-comer and drew her to the side of the 
rocky wall, so that they felt the sweep of the 
wind in their faces, but were not driven before it. 
‘ And come,’ she said, ‘ for two of us together 
will be like a great light to those who are in the 
darkness. They will see us like a lamp, and it 
will cheer them, though they know not why we 
are here. Listen ! ’ she cried. And the little 
Pilgrim, holding fast the hand of the watcher, 
listened and looked down upon the awful way; 
and underneath the sweep of the icy wind was a 
small sharp sound as of a stone rolling or a 
needle of rock that broke and fell, like the 
sounds that are in a wood when some creature 
moves, though too far off for footstep to sound. 
‘ Listen ! ’ said the watcher ; and her face so 
shone with joy that the little Pilgrim saw it 
clearly, like the shining of the morning in the 
midst of the darkness. ‘ He comes ! ’ 

‘ Oh, sister ! ’ she cried, ‘ is it he whom you 
love above all the rest? Is it he?’ 

The watcher smiled and said, ‘ If it is not he, 
yet is it a brother; if it is not he now, yet his 
time will come. And in every one who passes, 
I hope to see his face ; and the more that come, 
the more certain it is that he will come. And 
the time seems not long for the love I bear him. 

6 


82 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


And it is for this that the Lord has so considered 
me. Listen ! for some one comes.’ 

And there came to these watchers the stran- 
gest sight; for there flew past them while they 
gazed a man who seemed to be carried upon 
the sweep of the wind. In the midst of the 
darkness they could see the faint white in his 
face, with eyes of flame and lips set firm, 
whirled forward upon the wind, which would 
have dashed him against the rocks ; but as he 
whirled past, he caught with his hand the needles 
of the opposite peaks, and was swung high over 
a great chasm, and landed upon a higher height, 
high over their heads. And for a moment they 
could hear, like a pulsation through the depths, 
the hard panting of his breath; then, with 
scarcely a moment for rest, they heard the sound 
of his progress onward, as if he did battle with 
the mountain, and his own swiftness carried him 
like another wind. It had taken less than a 
moment to sweep him past, quicker than the 
flight of a bird, as sudden as a lightning flash. 
The little Pilgrim followed him with her eager 
ears, wondering if he would leap thus into the 
country of light and take heaven by storm, or 
whether he would fall upon the heavenly hills, 
and lie prostrate in weariness and exhaustion. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 83 

like him to whom she had ministered. She fol- 
lowed him with her ears, for the sound of his 
progress was with crashing of rocks and a swift 
movement in the air; but she was called back 
by the pressure of the hand of the watcher, who 
did not, like the little Pilgrim, follow him who 
thus rushed through space as far as there was 
sound or sight of him, but had turned again to 
the lower side, and was gazing once more, and 
listening for the little noises in the gulf below. 
The little Pilgrim remembered her friend’s hope, 
and said softly, ^It was not he?’ And the 
watcher clasped her hand again, and answered, 
‘It was a dear brother. I have sounded the 
silver bells for him ; and soon we shall hear 
them answering from the heights above. And 
another time it will be he.’ And they kissed 
each other because they understood each the 
other in her heart. 

And then they talked together of the old life 
when all things began ; and of the wonderful 
things they had learned concerning the love of 
the Father and the Son ; and how all the world 
was held by them and penetrated through and 
through by threads of love, so that it could never 
fail. And the darkness seemed light round them ; 
and they forgot for a little that tlie wind was not 


84 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


as a summer breeze. Then once more the hand 
of the watcher pressed that of her companion, 
and bade her hush and listen ; and they sat to- 
gether holding their breath, straining their ears. 
Then heard they faint sounds which were very 
different from those made by him who had been 
driven past them like an arrow from a bow, — 
first as of something falling, but very far away, 
and a faint sound as of a foot which slipped. 
The listeners did not say a word to each other ; 
they sat still and listened, scarcely drawing their 
breath. The darkness had no voice ; it could 
not be but that some traveller was there, though 
hidden deep, deep in the gloom, only betrayed 
by the sound. There was a long pause, and the 
watcher held fast the little Pilgrim’s hand, and 
betrayed to her the longing in her heart ; for 
though she was already blessed beyond all 
blessedness known on earth, yet had she not 
forgotten the love that had begun on earth, but 
was forevermore. She murmured to herself and 
said, ‘ If it is not he, it is a brother ; and the 
more that come, the more sure it is that he will 
come. Little sister, is there one for whom you 
watch ? ’ 

‘ There is no one,’ the Pilgrim said, — ‘ but 
all.’ 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 


85 


‘And so care I for all/ cried the watcher; 
and she drew her companion with her to the 
edge of the abyss, and they sat down upon it low 
among the rocks to escape the rushing of the 
wind. And they sang together a soft song ; ‘ For 
if he should hear us,’ she said, ‘ it may give him 
courage.’ And there they sat and sang; and 
the white of their garments and of their heavenly 
faces showed like a light in the deep gloom, so 
that he who was toiling upwards might see that 
speck above him, and be encouraged to continue 
upon his way. 

Sometimes he fell, and they could hear the 
moan he made, — for every sound came upwards, 
however small and faint it might be, — and some- 
times dragged himself along, so that they heard 
his movement up some shelf of rock. And as 
the Pilgrim looked, she saw other and other dim 
whitenesses along the ravines of the dark moun- 
tains, and knew that she was not the only one, 
but that many had come to watch and look for 
the coming of those who had been lost. 

Time was as nothing to these heavenly 
watchers ; but they knew how long and terrible 
were the moments to those upon the way. 
Sometimes there would be silence like the 
silence of long years ; and fear came upon them 


86 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


that the wayfarer had turned back, or that he 
had fallen, and lay suffering at the bottom of 
some gulf, or had been swept by the wind upon 
some icy peak and dashed against the rocks. 
Then anon, while they listened ^nd held their 
breath, a little sound would strike again into the 
silence, bringing back hope ; and again and 
again all would be still. The little Pilgrim held 
her companion’s hand; and the thought went 
through her mind that were she watching for one 
whom she loved above the rest, her heart would 
fail. But the watcher answered her as if she had 
spoken, and said, ‘ Oh, no, oh, no ; for if it is not 
he, it is a brother; and the Lord give them 
joy! ’ But they sang no more, their hearts be- 
ing faint with suspense and with eagerness to 
hear every sound. 

Then in the great chill of the silence, sud- 
denly, and not far off, came the sound of one 
who spoke. He murmured to himself and said, 
■‘Who can continue on this terrible way? The 
night is black like hell, and there comes no 
morning. It was better in the land of darkness, 
for still we could see the face of man, though not 
God.’ The muffled voice shook at that word, 
and then was still suddenly, as though it had 
been a flame and the wind had blown it out. 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 87 

And for a moment there was silence ; until sud- 
denly it broke forth once more, — 

‘ What is this that has come to me that I can 
say the name of God ? It tortures no longer, it 
is as balm. But He is far off and hears nothing. 
He called us and we answered not. Now it is we 
who call, and He will not hear. I will lie down 
and die. It cannot be that a man must live and 
live forever in pain and anguish. Here will I lie, 
and it will end. O Thou whose face I have seen 
in the night, make it possible for a man to die ! ’ 
The watcher loosed herself from her com- 
panion’s clasp, and stood upright upon the edge 
of the cliff, clasping her hands together and say- 
ing low, as to herself, ‘ Father, Father ! ’ as one 
who cannot refrain from that appeal, but who 
knows the Father loves best, and that to inter- 
cede is vain; and longing was in her face and 
joy. For it was he, and she knew that he 
could not now fail, but would reach to the celes- 
tial country and to the shining of the sun ; yet 
that it was not hers to help him, nor any man’s, 
nor angel’s. But the little Pilgrim was ignorant, 
not having been taught ; and she committed 
herself to those depths, though she feared them, 
and though she knew not what she could do. 
And once more the dense air closed over her. 


83 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


and the vacancy swallowed her up, and when 
she reached the rocks below, there lay something 
at her feet which she felt to be a man ; but she 
could not see him nor touch him, and when she 
tried to speak, her voice died away in her throat 
and made no sound. Whether it was the wind 
that caught it and swept it quite away, or that 
the well of that depth profound sucked every 
note upwards, or whether because it was not per- 
mitted that either man or angel should come out 
of their sphere, or help be given which was for- 
bidden, the little Pilgrim knew not, — for never 
had it been said to her that she should stand 
aside where need was. And surprise which was 
stronger than the icy wind, and for a moment a 
great dismay, took hold upon her, — for she under- 
stood not how it was that the bond of silence 
should bind her, and that she should be unable 
to put forth her hand to help him whom she 
heard moaning and murmuring, but could not 
see. And scarcely could her feet keep hold of 
the awful rock, or her form resist the upward 
sweep of the wind ; but though he saw her not 
nor she him, yet could not she leave him in his 
weakness and misery, saying to herself that even 
if she could do nothing, it must be well that a 
little love should be near. 


ON THE DARK MOUN'l'AINS. 89 

Then she heard him speak again, crouching 
under the rock at her feet ; and he said faintly to 
himself, ^ That was no dream. In the land of 
darkness there are no dreams nor voices that 
speak within us. On the earth they were never 
silent struggling and crying ; but there — all 
blank and still. Therefore it was no dream. It 
was One who came and looked me in the face ; 
and love was in His eyes. I have not seen love, 
oh, for so long ! But it was no dream. If God 
is a dream I know not, but love I know. And 
He said to me, “ Arise and go.” But to whom 
must I go? The words are words that once I 
knew, and the face I knew. But to whom, to 
whom ? ’ 

The little Pilgrim cried aloud, so that she 
thought the rocks must be rent by the vehemence 
of her cry, calling like the other, ‘ Father, Father, 
Father ! ’ as if her heart would burst ; and it was 
like despair to think that she made no sound, 
and that the brother could not hear her who lay 
thus fainting at her feet. Yet she could not stop, 
but went on crying like a child that has lost its 
way ; for to whom could a child call but to her 
father, and all the more when she cannot under- 
stand? And she called out and said that God 
was not His name save to strangers, if there are 


90 


THE LI'ITLE PILGRIM. 


any strangers, but that His name was Father, and 
it was to Him that all must go. And all her 
being thrilled like a bird with its song, so that 
the very air stirred ; yet no voice came. And she 
lifted up her face to the watcher above, and be- 
held where she stood holding up her hands a 
little whiteness in the great dark. But though 
these two were calling and calling, the silence 
was dumb. And neither of them could take him 
by the hand nor lift him up, nor show him, far, 
far above, the little diamond of the light, but were 
constrained to stand still and watch, seeing that 
he was one of those who are beyond hope. 

After she had waited a long time, he stirred 
^gain in the dark and murmured to himself once 
more, saying low, ‘ I have slept and am strong. 
And while I was sleeping He has come again ; 
He has looked at me again. And somewhere I 
will find Him. I will arise and go ; I will arise 
and go — ’ 

And she heard him move at her feet and grope 
over the rock with his hands ; but it was smooth 
as snow with no holding, and slippery as ice. 
And the watcher stood above and the Pilgrim 
below, but could not help him. He groped and 
groped, and murmured to himself, ever saying, 
‘ I will arise and go.’ And their hearts were 


ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 91 

wrung that they could not speak to him nor 
touch him nor help him. But at last in the dark 
there burst forth a great cry, ‘ Who said it ? ’ and 
then a sound of weeping, and amid the weeping, 
words. ^ As when I was a child, as when hope 
was — I will arise and I will go — to my Father, 
to my. Father ! for now I remember, and I know.’ 

The little Pilgrim sank down into a crevice of 
the rocks in the weakness of her great joy. x\nd 
something passed her mounting up and up ; 
and it seemed to her that he had touched her 
shoulder or her hand unawares, and that the 
dumb cry in her heart had reached him, and that 
it had been good for him that a little love stood 
by, though only to watch and to weep. And 
she listened and heard him go on and on ; and 
she herself ascended higher to the watch-tower. 
And the watcher was gone who had waited there 
for her beloved, for she had gone with him, as 
the Lord had promised her, to be the one who 
should lead him to the holy city and to see the 
Father’s face. And it was given to the little 
Pilgrim to sound the silver bells and to warn all 
the bands of the blessed, and the great angels 
and lords of the ‘whole world, that from out the 
land of darkness and from the regions, beyond 
hope another had come. 


92 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


She remained not there long, because there 
were many who sought that place that they might 
be the first to see if one beloved was among the 
travellers by that terrible way, and to welcome 
the brother or sister who was the most dear to 
them of all the children of the Father. But it 
was thus that she learned the last lesson of all that 
is in heaven and that is in earth, and in the heights 
above and in the depths below, which the great 
angels desire to look into, and all the princes and 
powers. And it is this : that there is that wliich 
is beyond hope yet not beyond love ; and that 
hope may fail and be no longer possible, but love 
cannot fail, — for hope is of men, but love is the 
Lord ; and there is but one thing which to Him 
is not possible, which is to forget ; and that even 
when the Father has hidden His face and help is 
forbidden, yet there goes He secretly and cannot 
forbear. 

But if there were any deep more profound, and 
to which access was not, either from the dark 
mountains or by any other way, the Pilgrim was 
not taught, nor ever found any knowledge, either 
among the angels who know all things, or among 
her brothers who were the children of men. 


III. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 

FOUND myself standing on my feet, with the 
ingling sensation of having come down rapidly 
jpon the ground from a height. There was a 
similar feeling in my head, as of the whirling 
and sickening sensation of passing downwards 
through the air, like the description Dante gives 
of his descent upon Geryon. My mind, curi- 
ously enough, was sufficiently disengaged to think 
of that, or at least to allow swift passage for the 
recollection through my thoughts. All the aching 
of wonder, doubt, and fear which I had been 
conscious of a little while before was gone. 
There was no distinct interval between the one 
condition and the other, nor in my fall (as I 
supposed it must have been) had I any conscious- 
ness of change. There was the whirling of the 
air, resisting my passage, yet giving way under 
me in giddy circles, and then the sharp shock of 
once more feeling under my feet something solid, 
which struck, yet sustained. After a little while 


94 


THE LiriLE PILGRIM. 


the giddiness above and the tingling below passed 
away, and I felt able to look about me and dis- 
cern where I was. But not all at once ; the 
things immediately about me impressed me first, 
then the general aspect of the new place. 

First of all the light, which was lurid, as if a 
thunder-storm were coming on. I looked up 
involuntarily to see if it had begun to rain ; but 
there was nothing of the kind, though what I saw 
above me was a lowering canopy of cloud, dark, 
threatening, with a faint reddish tint diffused upon 
the vaporous darkness. It was, however, quite 
sufficiently clear to see everything, and there was 
a good deal to see. I was in a street of what 
seemed a great and very populous place. There 
were shops on either side, full apparently of all 
sorts of costly wares. There was a continual 
current of passengers up and down on both sides 
of the way, and in the middle of the street car- 
riages of every description, humble and splendid. 
The noise was great and ceaseless ; the traffic 
continual. Some of the shops were most bril- 
liantly lighted, attracting one’s eyes in the sombre 
light outside, which, however, had just enough of 
day in it to make these spots of illumination look 
sickly. Most of the places thus distinguished 
were apparently bright with the electric or some 


THE L\ND OF DARKNESS. 


95 


other scientific light; and delicate machines of 
every description, brought to the greatest perfec- 
tion, were in some windows, as were also many 
fine productions of art, but mingled with the 
gaudiest and coarsest in a way which struck me 
with astonishment. I was also much surprised 
by the fact that the traffic, which was never stilled 
for a moment, seemed to have no sort of regula- 
tion. Some carriages dashed along, upsetting 
the smaller vehicles in their way, without the least 
restraint or order, either, as it seemed, from their 
own good sense or from the laws and customs of 
the plaoe. When an accident happened, there 
was a great shouting, and sometimes a furious 
encounter ; but nobody seemed to interfere. 
This was the first impression made upon me. 
The passengers on the pavement were equally 
regardless. I was myself pushed out of the 
way, first to one side, then to another, hustled 
when I paused for a moment, trodden upon and 
driven about. I retreated soon to the doorway 
of a shop, from whence with a little more safe- 
ty I could see what was going on. The noise 
made my head ring. It seemed to me that I 
could not hear myself think. If this were to go 
on forever, I said to myself, I should soon go 
mad. 


96 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


' Oh, no,^ said some one behind me, ‘ not at 
all. You will get used to it ; you will be glad of 
it. One does not want to hear one’s thoughts ; 
most of them are not worth hearing.’ 

I turned round and saw it was the master of 
the shop, who had come to the door on seeing 
me. He had the usual smile of a man who hoped 
to sell his wares ; but to my horror and astonish- 
ment, by some process which I could not under- 
stand, I saw that he was saying to himself, ‘ What 

ad d fool! here’s another of those cursed 

wretches, d him 1 ’ all with the same smile. 

I started back, and answered him as hotly, ‘ What 

do you mean by calling me a d d fool ? — 

fool yourself, and all the rest of it. Is this the 
way you receive strangers here ? ’ 

* Yes,’ he said with the same smile, ‘ this is 
the way ; and I only describe you as you are, as 
you will soon see. Will you walk in and look 
over my shop ? Perhaps you will find something 
to suit you if you are just setting up, as I suppose.’ 

I looked at him closely, but this time I could 
not see that he was saying anything beyond what 
was expressed by his lips : and I followed him 
into the shop, principally because it was quieter 
than the street, and without any intention of 
buying, — for what should I buy in a strange 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 97 

place where I had no settled habitation, and 
which probably I was only passing through? 

‘ I will look at your things,’ I said, in a way 
which I believe I had, of perhaps undue preten- 
sion. I had never been over-rich, or of very 
elevated station ; but I was believed by my friends 
(or enemies) to have an inclination to make 
myself out something more important than I was. 

* I will look at your things, and possibly I may find 
something that may suit me ; but with all the ate- 
liers of Paris and London to draw from, it is 
scarcely to be expected that in a place like this — ’ 

Here I stopped to draw my breath, with a 
good deal of confusion ; for I was unwilling to 
let him see that I did not know where I was. 

‘ A place like this,’ said the shop-keeper, with 
a little laugh which seemed to me full of mockery, 

* will supply you better, you will fincT, than — 
any other place. At least you will find it the 
only place practicable,’ he added. ‘ I perceive 
you are a stranger here.’ 

‘ Well, I may allow myself to be so, more 
or less. I have not had time to form much ac- 
quaintance with — the place ; what — do you 
call the place ? — its formal name, I mean,’ I 
said with a great desire to keep up the air of 
superior information. Except for the first mo- 
7 


98 


THE LIITLE PILGRIM. 


ment, I had not experienced that strange power 
of looking into the man below the surface which 
had frightened me. Now there occurred another 
gleam of insight, which gave me once more a 
sensation of alarm. I seemed to see a light of 
hatred and contempt below his smile ; and I felt 
that he was not in the least taken in by the air 
which I assumed. 

‘ The name of the place,’ he said, ‘ is not a 
pretty one. I hear the gentlemen who come to 
my shop say that it is not to be named to ears 
polite ; and I am sure your ears are very polite.’ 
He said this with the most offensive laugh, and 1 
turned upon him and answered him, without 
mincing matters, with a plainness of speech which 
startled myself, but did not seem to move him, 
for he only laughed again. ‘ Are you not afraid,’ 
I said, ‘ that I will leave your shop and never 
enter it more ? ’ 

‘ Oh, it helps to pass the time,’ he said ; and 
without any further comment began to show me 
very elaborate and fine articles of furniture. I 
had always been attracted to this sort of thing, 
and had longed to buy such articles for my house 
when I had one, but never had it in my power. 
Now I had no house, nor any means of paying 
so far as I knew, but I felt quite at my ease about 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 99 

buying, and inquired into the prices with the 
greatest composure. 

^ They are just the sort of thing I want. I will 
take these, I think ; but you must set them aside 
for me, for I do not at the present moment 
exactly know — ’ 

" You mean you have got no rooms to put them 
in,’ said the master of the shop. ‘ You must get 
a house directly, that’s all. If you’re only up to 
it, it is easy enough. Look about until you find 
something you like, and then — take possession.’ 

‘ Take possession ' — I was so much surprised 
that I stared at him with mingled indignation and 
surprise — ‘ of what belongs to another man ? ’ I 
said. 

I was not conscious of anything ridiculous in 
my look. 1 was indignant, which is not a state 
of mind in which there is, any absurdity ; but the 
-shop-keeper suddenly burst into a storm of laugh- 
ter. He laughed till he seemed almost to fall 
into convulsions, with a harsh mirth which re- 
minded me of the old image of the crackling of 
thorns, and had neither amusement nor warmth 
in it ; and presently this was echoed all around, 
and looking up, I saw grinning faces full of deri- 
sion bent upon me from every side, from the 
stairs which led to the upper part of the house 


L.ofC. 


lOO 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


and from the depths of the shop behind, — faces 
with pens behind their ears, faces in workmen’s 
caps, all distended from ear to ear, with a sneer 
and a mock and a rage of laughter which nearly 
sent me mad. I hurled I don’t know what im- 
precations at them as I rushed out, stopping my 
ears in a paroxysm of fury and mortification. 
My mind was so distracted by this occurrence 
that I rushed without knowing it upon some one 
who was passing, and threw him down with the 
violence of my exit ; upon which I was set on by 
a party of half a dozen ruffians, apparently his 
companions, who would, I thought, kill me, but 
who only flung me, wounded, bleeding, and feel- 
ing as if every bone in my body had been broken, 
down on the pavement, when they went away, 
laughing too. 

I picked myself up from the edge of the cause- 
way, aching and sore from head to foot, scarcely 
able to move, yet conscious that if I did not get 
myself out of the way, one or other of the vehicles 
which were dashing along would run over me. 
It would be impossible to describe the miserable 
sensations, both of body and mind, with which I 
dragged myself across the crowded pavement, 
not without curses and even kicks from the 
passers-by, and avoiding the shop from which 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


lOI 


I Still heard those shrieks of devilish laughter, 
gathered myself up in the shelter of a little pro- 
jection of a wall, where I was for the moment safe. 
The pain which I felt was as nothing to the sense 
of humiliation, the mortification, the rage with 
which I was possessed. There is nothing in 
existence more dreadful than rage which is im- 
potent, which cannot punish or avenge, which 
has to restrain itself and put up with insults 
showered upon it, I had never known before 
what that helpless, hideous exasperation was; 
and I was humilated beyond description, brought 
down — I, whose inclination it was to make more 
of myself than was justifiable — to the aspect of a 
miserable ruffian beaten in a brawl, soiled, covered 
with mud and dust, my clothes torn, my face 
bruised and disfigured, — all this within half an 
hour or thereabout of my arrival in a strange 
place where nobody knew me or could do me 
justice ! I kept looking out feverishly for some 
one with an air of authority to whom I could 
appeal. Sooner or later somebody must go by, 
who, seeing me in such a plight, must inquire 
how it came about, must help me and vindicate 
me. I sat there for I cannot tell how long, ex- 
pecting every moment that were it but a police- 
man, somebody would notice and help me ; but 


102 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


no one came. Crowds seemed to sweep by with- 
out a pause, — all hurrying, restless ; some with 
anxious faces, as if any delay would be mortal ; 
some in noisy groups intercepting the passage of 
the others. Sometimes one would pause to point 
me out to his comrades with a shout of derision 
at my miserable plight, or if by a change of pos- 
ture I got outside the protection of my wall, 
would kick me back with a coarse injunction to 
keep out of the way. No one was sorry for me ; 
not a look of compassion, not a word of in- 
quiry was wasted upon me ; no representative of 
authority appeared. I saw a dozen quarrels while 
I lay there, cries of the weak, and triumphant 
shouts of the strong ; but that was all. 

I was drawn after a while from the fierce and 
burning sense of my own grievances by a queru- 
lous voice quite close to me. ‘This is my cor- 
ner,’ it said. ‘ I ’ve sat here for years, and I 
have a right to it. And here you come, you big 
ruffian, because you know I haven’t got the 
strength to push you away.’ 

‘ Who are you ? ’ I said, turning round horror- 
stricken ; for close beside me was a miserable 
man, apparently in the last stage of disease. 
He was pale as death, yet eaten up with sores. 
His body was agitated by a nervous trembling. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


103 


He seemed to shuffle along on hands and feet, as 
though the ordinary mode of locomotion was im- 
possible to him, and yet was in possession of all 
his limbs. Pain was written in his face. I drew 
away to leave him room, with mingled pity and 
horror that this poor wretch should be the part- 
ner of the only shelter I could find within so 
short a time of my arrival. I who — It was 
horrible, shameful, humiliating ; and yet the suf- 
fering in his wretched face was so evident that I 
could not but feel a pang of pity too. ^ I have 
nowhere to go,’ I said. ‘ I am — a stranger. I 
have been badly used, and nobody seems to care.’ 

* No,’ he said, ‘ nobody cares ; don’t you 
look for that. Why should they? Why, you 
look as if you were sorry for me! What a 
joke ! ’ he murmured to himself, — ‘ what a 
joke ! Sorry for some one else ! What a fool 
the fellow must be ! ’ 

‘You look,’ I said, ‘as if you were suffering 
horribly ; and you say you have come here for 
years.’ 

‘Suffering! I should think I was,’ said the 
sick man ; ‘ but what is that to you? Yes ; I ’ve 
been here for years, — oh, years ! that means 
nothing, — for longer than can be counted. 
Suffering is not the word. It ’s torture ; it ’s 


104 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


agony ! But who cares ? Take your leg out of 
my way.' 

I drew myself out of his way from a sort of 
habit, though against my will, and asked, from 
habit too, ‘ Are you never any better than now ? ’ 

He looked at me more closely, and an air of 
astonishment came over his face. ‘ What d’ ye 
want here,’ he said, ‘ pitying a man ? That ’s 
something new here. No ; I’m not always so 
bad, if you want to know. I get better, and 
then I go and do what makes me bad again, and 
that’s how it will go on ; and I choose it to be 

so, and you need n’t bring any of your d d 

pity here.’ 

‘ I may ask, at least, why are n’t you looked 
after ? Why don’t you get into some hospital ? ’ 
I said. 

‘ Hospital !’ cried the sick man, and then he too 
burst out into that furious laugh, the most awful 
sound I ever had heard. Some of the passers-by 
stopped to hear what the joke was, and sur- 
rounded me with once more a circle of mockers. 

‘ Hospitals ! perhaps you would like a whole 
Red Cross Society, with ambulances and all 
arranged?’ cried one. ‘Or the Misericordia / * 
shouted another. I sprang up to my feet, cry- 
ing, ‘ Why not? ’ with an impulse of rage which 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 105 

gave me strength. Was I never to meet with 
anything but this fiendish laughter ? * There ’s 

some authority, I suppose/ I cried in my fury. 
^ It is not the rabble that is the only master here, 
I hope.’ But nobody took the least trouble to 
hear what I had to say for myself. The last 
speaker struck me on the mouth, and called me 
an accursed fool for talking of what I did not 
understand; and finally they all swept on and 
passed away. 

I had been, as I thought, severely injured when 
I dragged myself into that corner to save myself 
from the crowd ; but I sprang up now as if noth- 
ing had happened to me. My wounds had dis- 
appeared ; my bruises were gone. I was as I 
had been when I dropped, giddy and amazed, 
upon the same pavement, how long — an hour? 
— before ? It might have been an hour, it might 
have been a year, I cannot tell. The light was 
the same as ever, the thunderous atmosphere un- 
changed. Day, if it was day, had made no pro- 
gress ; night, if it was evening, had come no 
nearer, — all was the same. ^ 

As I went on again presently, with a vexed 
and angry spirit, regarding on every side around 
me the endless surging of the crowd, and feeling 
a loneliness, a sense of total abandonment and 


io6 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


solitude, which I cannot describe, there came up 
to me a man of remarkable appearance. That 
he was a person of importance, of great knowl- 
edge and information, could not be doubted. 
He was very pale, and of a worn but command- 
ing aspect. The lines of his face were deeply 
drawn; his eyes were sunk under high arched 
brows, from which they looked out as from 
caves, full of a fiery impatient light. His thin 
lips were never quite without a smile ; but it was 
not a smile in which any pleasure was. He 
walked slowly, not hurrying, like most of the 
passengers. He had a reflective look, as if pon- 
dering many things. He came up to me sud- 
denly, without introduction or preliminary, and 
took me by the arm. ‘ What object had you in 
talking of these antiquated institutions ? ’ he said. 

And I saw in his mind the gleam of the 
thought, which seemed to be the. first with all, 
that I was a fool, and that it was the natural 
thing to wish me harm, just as in the earth 
above it was the natural thing, professed at least, 
to* wish well, — to say, Good-morning, good-day, 
by habit and without thought. In this strange 
country the stranger was received with a curse, 
and it woke an answer not unlike the hasty 
‘ Curse you, then, also ! ’ which seemed to come 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. IO7 

without any will of mine through my mind. But 
this provoked only a smile from my new friend. 
He took no notice. He was disposed to ex- 
amine me, to find some amusement perhaps — 
how could I tell ? — in what I might say. 

‘ What antiquated things ? ’ 

‘ Are you still so slow of understanding ? 
What were they — hospitals ? The pretences of a 
world that can still, deceive itself. Did you ex- 
pect to find them here?’ 

‘ I expected to find — how should I know ? ’ I 
said, bewildered — ‘ some shelter for a poor 
wretch where he could be cared for, not to be 
left there to die in the street. Expected ! I 
never thought. I took it for granted — ’ 

‘ To die in the street ! ’ he cried with a smile 
and a shrug of his shoulders. ‘ You ’ll learn 
better by and by. And if he did die in the 
street, what then? What is that to you?’ 

‘ To me ! ’ I turned and looked at him, 
amazed ; but he had somehow shut his soul, so 
that I could see nothing but the deep eyes in 
their caves, and the smile upon the close-shut 
mouth. ' No more to me than to any one. I 
only spoke for humanity’s sake, as — a fellow- 
creature.’ 

My new acquaintance gave way to a silent 


I08 THE LIITLE PILGRIM. 

laugh within himself, which was not so offensive 
as tlie loud laugh of the crowd, but yet was more 
exasperating than words can say. ‘You think 
that matters ? But it does not hurt you that he 
should be in pain. It would do you no good if he 
were to get well. Why should you trouble your- 
self one way or the other ? Let him die — if he 
can — That makes no difference to you or me.’ 

‘ I must be dull indeed,’ I cried, — ‘ slow of 
understanding, as you say. This is going back 
to the ideas of times beyond knowledge — before 
Christianity — ’ As soon as I had said this I 
felt somehow — I could not tell how — as if my 
voice jarred, as if something false and unnatural 
was in what I said. My companion gave my 
arm a twist as if with a shock of surprise, then 
laughed in his inward way again. 

‘We don’t think much of that here, nor of 
your modern pretences in general. The only 
thing that touches you and me is what hurts or 
helps ourselves. To be sure, it all comes to the 
same thing, — for I suppose it annoys you to see 
that wretch writhing ; it hurts your more delicate, 
highly-cultivated consciousness.’ 

‘ It has nothing to do with my consciousness,’ 
I cried angrily ; ‘ it is a shame to let a fellow- 
creature suffer if we can prevent it.’ 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. IO9 

* Why should n’t he suffer? ’ said my compan- 
ion. We passed as he spoke some other squalid, 
wretched creatures shuffling among the crowd, 
whom he kicked with his foot, calling forth a 
yell of pain and curses. This he regarded with 
a supreme contemptuous calm which stupefied 
me. Nor did any of the passers-by show the 
slightest inclination to take the part of the suf- 
ferers. They laughed, or shouted out a gibe, 
or what was still more wonderful, went on with 
a complete unaffected indifference, as if all this 
was natural. I tried to disengage my arm in 
horror and dismay, but he held me fast with a 
pressure that hurt me. ‘ That ’s the question,’ 
he said. * What have we to do with it ? Your 
fictitious consciousness makes it painful to you. 
To me, on the contrary, who take the view of 
nature, it is a pleasurable feeling. It enhances 
the amount of ease, whatever that may be, which 
I enjoy. I am in no pain. That brute who is* 
— and he flicked with a stick he carried the 
uncovered wound of a wretch upon the roadside 
— 'makes me more satisfied with my condition. 
Ah ! you think it is I who am the brute ? You 
will change your mind by and by.’ 

' Never ! ’ I cried, wrenching my arm from his 
with an effort, ' if I should live a hundred years.* 


I lO 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


‘ A hundred years, — a drop in the bucket ! " 
he said with his silent laugh. ‘ You will live for- 
ever, and you will come to my view; and we 
shall meet in the course of ages, from time to 
time, to compare notes. I would say good- 
by after the old fashion, but you are but 
newly arrived, and I will not treat you so 
badly as that.’ With which he parted from 
me, waving his hand, with his everlasting horrible 
smile. 

‘ Good-by ! ’ I said to myself, ^ good-by ! 
why should it be treating me badly to say 
good-by — ’ 

I was startled by a buffet on the -mouth. 
‘ Take that ! ’ cried some one, ‘to teach you how 
to wish the worst of tortures to people who have 
done you no harm.’ 

‘ What have I said ? I meant no harm ; I re- 
peated only what is the commonest civility, the 
merest good manners.’ 

‘ You wished,’ said the man who had struck 
me, — ‘ I won’t repeat the words : to me, for it 
was I only that heard them, the awful company 
that hurts most, that sets everything before us, 
both past and to come, and cuts like a sword 
and burns like fire. I ’ll say it to yourself, and 
see how it feels. God be with you ! There ! it 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


Ill 


is said, and we all must bear it, thanks, you fool 
and accursed, to you.’ 

And then there came a pause over all the 
place, an awful stillness, — hundreds of men and 
women standing clutching with desperate move- 
ments at their hearts as if to tear them out, mov- 
ing their heads as if to dash them against the wall, 
wringing their hands, with a look upon all their con- 
vulsed faces which I can never forget. They all 
turned to me, cursing me with those horrible eyes 
of anguish. And everything was still ; the noise 
all stopped for a moment, the air all silent, with* 
a silence that could be felt. And then suddenly 
out of the crowd there came a great piercing cry ; 
and everything began again exactly as before. 

While this pause occurred, and while I stood 
wondering, bewildered, understanding nothing, 
there came over me a darkness, a blackness, a 
sense of misery such as never in all my life — 
though I have known troubles enough — I had 
felt before. All that had happened to me 
throughout my existence seemed to rise pale and 
terrible in a hundred scenes before me, — all 
momentary, intense, as if each was the present 
moment. And in each of these scenes I saw 
what I had never seen before. I saw where I 
had taken the wrong instead of the right step. 


II2 


THE LirrLE PILGRIM. 


in what wantonness, with what self-will it had 
been done ; how God (I shuddered at the name) 
had spoken and called me, and even entreated, 
and I had withstood and refused. All the evil I 
had done came back, and spread itself out before 
my eyes ; and I loathed it, yet knew that I had 
chosen it, and that it would be with me forever. 
I saw it all in the twinkling of an eye, in a mo- 
ment, while I stood there, and all men with me, 
in the horror of awful thought. Then it ceased 
as it had come, instantaneously, and the noise 
*and the laughter, and the quarrels and cries, and 
all the commotion of this new bewildering place, 
in a moment began again. I had seen no one 
while this strange paroxysm lasted. When it 
disappeared, I came to myself, emerging as from 
a dream, and looked into the face of the man 
whose words, not careless like mine, had brought 
it upon us. Our eyes met, and his were sur- 
rounded by curves and lines of anguish which 
were terrible to see. 

‘Well,’ he said with a short laugh, which was 
forced and harsh, ‘how do you like it? that is 
what happens when — If it came often, who 
could endure it?’ He was not like the rest. 
There was no sneer upon his face, no gibe at my 
simplicity. Even now, when all had recovered. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 113 

he was still quivering with something that looked 
like a nobler pain. His face was very grave, the 
lines deeply drawn in it ; and he seemed to be 
seeking no amusement or distraction, nor to 
take any part in the noise and tumult which was 
going on around. 

‘ Do you know what that cry meant ? ’ he said. 
‘ Did you hear that cry ? It was some one who 
saw — even here once in a long time, they say, 
it can be seen — ’ 

‘ What can be seen ? ’ 

He shook his head, looking at me with a mean- 
ing which I could not interpret. It was beyond 
the range of my thoughts. I came to know after, 
or I never could have made this record. But on 
that subject he said no more. He turned the 
way I was going, though it mattered nothing 
what way I went, for all were the same to me. 
‘You are one of the new-comers?’ he said; 
‘ you have not been long here — ’ 

‘Tell me,’ I cried, ‘what you mean by here. 
Where are we ? How can one tell who has fallen 
— he knows not whence or where ? What is this 
place ? I have never seen anything like it. It 
seems to me that I hate it already, though I know 
not what it is.’ 

He shook his head once more. ‘You will 
S 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


II4 

hate it more and more/ he said ; * but of these 
dreadful streets you will never be free, unless — ’ 
And here he stopped again. 

* Unless — what ? If it is possible, I will be 
free of them, and that before long.' 

He smiled at me faintly, as we smile at children, 
but not with derision. 

* How shall you do that ? Between this miser- 
able world and all others, there is a great gulf 
fixed. It is full of all the bitterness and tears 
that come from all the universe. These drop 
from them, but stagnate here. We, you perceive, 
have no tears, not even at moments — ' Then, 
‘You will soon be accustomed to all this,’ he 
said. ‘ You will fall into the way. Perhaps you 
will be able to amuse yourself to make it passable. 
Many do. ‘ There are a number of fine things to 
be seen here. If you are curious, come with me 
and I will show you. Or work, — there is even 
work. There is only one thing that is impossible, 
or if not impossible — ’ And here he paused 
again and raised his eyes to the dark clouds and 
lurid sky overhead. ‘ The man who gave that 
cry ! if I could but find him ! he must have 
seen — ’ 

‘ What could he see ? ’ I asked. But there 
arose in my mind something like contempt. A 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 15 

visionary ! who could not speak plainly, who 
broke off into mysterious inferences, and appeared 
to know more than he would say. It seemed 
foolish to waste time, when evidently there was 
still so much to see, in the company of such a 
man ; and I began already to feel more at home. 
There was something in that moment of anguish 
which had wrought a strange familiarity in me 
with my surroundings. It was so great a relief to 
return out of the misery of that sharp and horrible 
self-realization, to what had come to be, in com- 
parison, easy and well known. I had no desire 
to go back and grope among the mysteries and 
anguish so suddenly revealed. I was glad to be 
free from them, to be left to myself, to get a little 
pleasure perhaps like the others. While these 
thoughts passed through my mind, I had gone 
on without any active impulse of my own, as 
everybody else did ; and my latest companion 
had disappeared. He saw, no doubt, without 
any need for words,’ what my feelings were. And 
I proceeded on my way. I felt better as I got 
more accustomed to the place, or perhaps it was 
the sensation of relief after that moment of in- 
describable pain. As for the sights in the streets, 
I began to grow used to them. The wretched 
creatures who strolled or sat about with signs of 


Il6 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

sickness or wounds upon them disgusted me only, 
they no longer called forth my pity. I began to 
feel ashamed of my silly questions about the hos- 
pital. All the same, it would have been a good 
thing to have had some receptacle for them, into 
which they might have been driven out of the 
way. I felt an inclination to push them aside as 
I saw other people do, but was a little ashamed 
of that impulse too ; and so I went on. There 
seemed no quiet streets, so far as I could make 
out, in the place. Some were smaller, meaner, 
with a different kind of passengers, but the same 
hubbub and unresting movement everywhere. 
I saw no signs of melancholy or seriousness ; 
active pain, violence, brutality, the continual 
shock of quarrels and blows, but no pensive faces 
about, no sorrowfulness, nor the kind of trouble 
which brings thought. Everybody was fully 
occupied, pushing on as if in a race, pausing for 
nothing. 

The glitter of the lights, the shouts, and sounds 
of continual going, the endless whirl of passers-by, 
confused and tired me after a while. I went as 
far out as I could go to what seemed the out- 
skirts of the place, where I could by glimpses 
perceive a low horizon all lurid and glowing, 
which seemed to sweep round and round. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. II 7 

Against it in the distance stood up the outline, 
black against that red glow, of other towers and 
house-tops, so many and great that there was 
evidently another town between us and the sun- 
set, if sunset it was. I have seen a western sky 
like it when there were storms about, and all the 
colors of the sky were heightened and darkened 
by angry influences. The distant town rose 
against it, cutting the firmament so that it might 
have been tongues of flame flickering between 
the dark solid outlines ; and across the waste 
open country which lay between the two cities, 
there came a distant hum like the sound of the 
sea, which was in reality the roar of that other 
multitude. The country between showed no 
greenness or beauty ; it lay dark under the dark 
overhanging sky. Here and there seemed a 
cluster of giant trees scathed as if by lightnings 
their bare boughs standing up as high as the 
distant towers, their trunks like black columns 
without foliage. Openings here and there, with 
glimmering lights, looked like the mouths of 
mines ; but of passengers there were scarcely 
any. A figure here and there flew along as if 
pursued, imperfectly seen, a shadow only a little 
darker than the space about. And in contrast 
with the sound of the city, here was no sound at 


Il8 THE LITTLE Pp^GRIM. 

all, except the low roar on either side, and a 
vague cry or two from the openings of the mine, 
— a scene all drawn in darkness, in variations of 
gloom, deriving scarcely any light at all from the 
red and gloomy burning of that distant evening sky. 

A faint curiosity to go forwards, to see what 
the mines were, perhaps to get a share in 
what was brought up from them, crossed my 
mind. But I was afraid of the dark, of the wild 
uninhabited savage look of the landscape ; though 
when- I thought of it, there seemed no reason 
why a narrow stretch of country between two 
great towns should be alarming. But the impres- 
sion was strong and above reason. I turned back 
to the street in which I had first alighted, and 
which seemed to end in a great square full of 
people. In the middle there was a stage erected, 
from which some one was delivering an oration 
or address of some sort. He stood beside a long 
table, upon which lay something which I could 
not clearly distinguish, except that it seemed 
alive, and moved, or rather writhed with con- 
vulsive twitchings, as if trying to get free of the 
bonds which confined it. Round the stage in 
front were a number of seats occupied by listen- 
ers, many of whom were women, whose interest 
seemed to be very great, some of them being 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. I19 

furnished with note-books ; while a great unsettled 
crowd coming and going, drifted round, — many, 
arrestecf for a time as they passed, proceeding 
on their way when the interest flagged, as is usual 
to such open-air assemblies. I followed two of 
those who pushed their way to within a short 
distance of the stage, and who were strong, big 
men, more fitted to elbow the crowd aside than. 
I, after my rough treatment in the first place, 
and the agitation I had passed through, could be. 
I was glad, besides, to take advantage of the 
explanation which one was giving to the other. 

^ It ’s always fun to see this fellow demonstrate,’ 
he said, ‘ and the subject to-day ’s a capital one. 
Let ’s get well forward, and see all that ’s going 
on.’ 

‘ Which subject do you mean ? ’ said the other ; 
‘ the theme or the example ? ’ And they both 
laughed, though I did not seize the point of the 
wit. 

‘ Well, both,’ said the first speaker. ‘ The theme 
is nerves; and as a lesson in construction and 
the calculation of possibilities, it ’s fine. He ’s 
very clever at that. He shows how they are all 
strung to give as much pain and do as much 
harm as can be ; and yet how well it ’s all managed, 
don’t you know, to look the reverse. As for the 


120 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


example, he’s a capital one — all nerves together, 
lying, if you like, just on the surface, ready for 
the knife.’ 

* If they ’re on the surface I can’t see where the 
fun is,’ said the other. 

* Metaphorically speaking. Of course they are 
just where other people’s nerves are ; but he ’s 
what you call a highly organized nervous speci- 
man. There will be plenty of fun. Hush ! he 
is just going to begin.’ 

‘ The arrangement of these threads of being,* 
said the lecturer, evidently resuming after a pause, 
‘so as to convey to the brain the most instanta- 
neous messages of pain or pleasure, is wonderfully 
skilful and clever. I need not say to the audi- 
ence before me, enlightened as it is by experiences 
of the most striking kind, that the messages are 
less of pleasure than of pain. They report to 
the brain the stroke of injury far more often than 
the thrill of pleasure ; though sometimes that too, 
no doubt, or life could scarcely be maintained. 
The powers that be have found it necessary to 
mingle a little sweet of pleasurable sensation, else 
our miserable race would certainly have found 
some means of procuring annihilation. I do not 
for a moment pretend to say that the pleasure is 
sufficient to offer a just counterbalance to the 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


I2I 


Other. None of my hearers will, I hope, accuse 
me of inconsistency. I am ready to allow that 
in a previous condition I asserted somewhat 
strongly that this was the case ; but experience 
has enlightened us on that point. Our circuni- 
stances are now understood by us all in a man- 
ner impossible while we were still in a condition 
of incompleteness. We are all convinced that 
there is no compensation. The pride of the 
position, of bearing everything rather than give 
in, or making a submission we do not feel, of 
preserving our own will and individuality to all 
eternity, is the only compensation. I am satisfied 
with it, for my part.’ 

The orator made a pause, holding his head 
high, and there was a certain amount of applause. 
The two men before me cheered vociferously. 
' That is the right way to look at it,’ one of them 
said. My eyes were upon them, with no partic- 
ular motive ; and I could not help starting, as 
I saw suddenly underneath their applause and 
laughter a snarl of cursing, which was the real 
expression of their thoughts. I felt disposed in 
the same way to curse the speaker, though I knew 
no reason why. 

He went on a little farther, explaining what he 
meant to do ; and then turning round, approached 


122 


THE LITT’LE PILGRIM. 


the table. An assistant, who was waiting, un- 
covered it quickly. The audience stirred with 
quickened interest, and I with consternation 
made a step forwards, crying out with horror. 
The object on the table, writhing, twitching to 
get free, but bound down by every limb, was a 
living man. The lecturer went forwards calmly, 
taking his instruments from their case with per- 
fect composure and coolness. ‘ Now, ladies and 
gentlemen,’ he said, and inserted the knife in 
the flesh, making a long clear cut in the bound 
arm. I shrieked out, unable to restrain myself. 
The sight of the deliberate wound, the blood, 
the cry of agony that came from the victim, the 
calmness of all the lookers-on, filled me with 
horror and rage indescribable. I felt myself 
clear the crowd away wuth a rush, and spring on 
the platform, I could not tell how. ‘You devil ! ’ 
I cried, ‘ let the man go ! Where is the police ? 
Where is a magistrate? Let the man go this 
moment ! fiends in human shape ! I ’ll have you 
brought to justice ! ’ I heard myself shouting 
wildly, as I flung myself upon the wretched suf- 
ferer, interposing between him and the knife. 
It was something like this that I said. My hor- 
ror and rage were delirious, and carried me 
beyond all attempt at control. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


123 


Through it all I heard a shout of laughter rising 
from everybody round. The lecturer laughed; 
the audience roared with that sound of horrible 
mockery which had driven me out of myself in 
my first experience. All kinds of mocking cries 
sounded around me. ‘ Let him a little blood to 
calm him down.’ Let the fool have a taste of 
it himself, doctor.’ Last of all came a voice 
mingled with the cries of the sufferer whom I 
was trying to shield, ‘ Take him instead ; curse 
him ! take him instead.’ I was bending over 
the man with my arms outstretched, protecting 
him, when he gave vent to this cry. And I 
heard immediately behind me a shout of assent, 
which seemed to come from the two strong young 
men with whom I had been standing, and the 
sound of a rush to seize me. I looked round, 
half mad with terror and rage ; a second more 
and I should have been strapped on the table 
too. I made one wild bound into the midst of 
the crowd ; and struggling among the arms 
stretched out to catch me, amid the roar of the 
laughter and cries — fled — fled wildly, I knew 
not whither, in panic and rage and horror which 
no words could describe. Terror winged my 
feet. I flew, thinking as little of whom I met, or 
knocked down, or trod upon in my way, as the 


124 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


Others did at whom I had wondered a little while 
ago. 

No distinct impression of this headlong course 
remains in my mind, save the sensation of mad 
fear such as I had never felt before. I came to 
myself on the edge of the dark valley which sur- 
rounded the town. All my pursuers had dropped 
off before that time ; and I have the recollection 
of flinging myself upon the ground on my face 
in the extremity of fatigue and exhaustion. I 
must have lain there undisturbed for some time. 
A few steps came and went, passing me ; but no 
one took any notice, and the absence of the 
noise and crowding gave me a momentary res- 
pite. But in my heat and fever I got no relief 
of coolness from the contact of the soil. I might 
have flung myself upon a bed of hot ashes, so 
much was it unlike the dewy cool earth which I 
expected, upon which one can always throw 
one’s self with a sensation of repose. Presently 
the uneasiness of it made me struggle up again 
and look around me. I was safe ; at least the 
cries of the pursuers had died away, the laughter 
which made my blood boil offended my ears no 
more. The noise of the city was behind me, 
softened into an indefinite roar by distance, and 
before me stretched out the dreary landscape in 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 25 

which there seemed no features of attraction. 
Now that I was nearer to it, I found it not so 
unpeopled as I thought. At no great distance 
from me was the mouth of one of the mines, 
from which came an indication of subterranean 
lights; and I perceived that the Sying figures 
which I had taken for travellers between one 
city and another were in reality wayfarers en- 
deavoring to keep clear of what seemed a sort of 
press-gang at the openings. One of them, unable 
to stop himself in his. flighty adopted the same 
expedient as myself, and threw himself on the 
ground close to me when he had got beyond the 
range of pursuit. It was curious that we should 
meet there, he flying from a danger which I was 
about to face, and ready to encounter that from 
which I had fled. I waited for a few minutes 
till he had recovered his breath, and then, 
^ What are you running from? ’ I said. ‘ Is there 
any danger there ? ’ The man looked up at me 
with the same continual question in his eyes,— 
Who is this fool? 

‘ Danger ! ’ he said. ‘ Are you so new here, 
or such a cursed idiot, as not to know the 
danger of the mines? You are going across 
yourself, I suppose, and then you ’ll see.’ 

* But tell me,’ I said ; ^ my experience may be 


126 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


of use to you afterwards, if you will tell me yours 
now.’ 

‘ Of use ! ’ he cried, staring ; * who cares ? 
Find out for yourself. If they get hold of you, 
you will soofi understand.’ 

I no longer took this for rudeness, but an- 
swered in his own way, cursing him too for a 
fool. ‘ If I ask a warning I can give one ; as 
for kindness,’ I said, ‘ I was not looking for 
that.’ 

At this he laughed, indeed we laughed to- 
gether, — there seemed something ridiculous in 
the thought ; and presently he told me, for the 
mere relief of talking, that round each of these 
pit-mouths there was a band to entrap every 
passer-by who allowed himself to be caught, and 
send him down below to work in the mine. 
‘ Once there, there is no telling when you may 
get free,’ he said ; ‘ one time or other most 
people have a taste of it. You don’t know what 
hard labor is if you have never been there. I 
had a spell once. There is neither air nor light ; 
your blood boils in your veins from the fervent 
heat ; you are never allowed to rest. You are 
put in every kind of contortion to get at it, your 
limbs twisted, and your muscles strained.’ 

^ For what? ’ I said. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


127 


‘ For gold !’ he cried with a flash in his eyes 
— ‘ gold ! There it is inexhaustible ; however 
hard you may work, there is always more, and 
more ! ’ 

‘ And to whom does all that belong ? ’ I said. 

‘ To whoever is strong enough to get hold 
and keep possession, — sometimes one, some- 
times another. The only thing you are sure 
of is that it will never be you.’ 

Why not I as well as another? was the 
thought that went through my mind, and my 
new companion spied it with a shriek of 
derision. 

^ It is not for you nor your kind,’ he cried. 
‘ How do you think you could force other people 
to serve ? Can you terrify them or hurt 
them, or give them anything? You have not 
learned yet who are the masters here.’ 

This troubled me, for it was true. ‘ I had 
begun to thiiik,’ I said, ‘that there was no au- 
thority at all, — for every man seems to do as he 
pleases ; you ride over one, and knock another 
down, or you seize a living man and cut him to 
pieces ’ — I shuddered as I thought of it — ‘ and 
there is nobody to interfere.’ 

‘Who should interfere?’ he said. ‘Why 
shouldn’t every man amuse himself- as he can? 


128 


THE HITLE PILGRIM. 


But yet for all that we Ve got our masters/ he 
cried with a scowl, waving his clinched fist in 
the direction of the mines ; ‘ you ’ll find it out 
when you get there.’ 

It was a long time after this before I ventured 
to move, for here it seemed to me that for the 
moment I was safe, — outside the city, yet not 
within reach of the dangers of that intermediate 
space which grew clearer before me as my eyes 
became accustomed to the lurid threatening 
afternoon light. One after another the fugitives 
came flying past me, — people who had escaped 
from the armed bands whom I could now see on 
the watch near the pit’s mouth. I could see 
too the tactics of these bands, — how they re- 
tired, veiling the lights and the opening, when a 
greater number than usual of travellers appeared 
on the way, and then suddenly widening out, 
throwing out flanking lines, surrounded and drew 
in the unwary. I could even hear* the cries with 
which their victims disappeared over the opening 
which seemed to go down into the bowels of the 
earth. By and by there came flying towards me 
a wretch more dreadful in aspect than any I had 
seen. His scanty clothes seemed singed and 
burned into rags ; his hair, which hung about his 
face unkempt and uncared for, had the same 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


129 


singed aspect; his skin was brown and baked. 
I got up as he approached, and caught him and 
threw him to the ground, without heeding his 
struggles to get on. ‘ Don’t you see,’ he cried 
with a gasp, ‘ they may get me again.* He was 
one of those who had escaped out of the mines ; 
but what was it to me whether they caught him 
again or not? I wanted to know how he had 
been caught, and what he had been set to do, 
and how he had escaped. Why should I hesitate 
to use my superior strength when no one else 
did ? I kept watch over him that he should not 
get away. 

^ You have been in the mines ? * I said. 

‘ Let me go ! * he cried. ‘ Do you need to 
ask ? ’ and he cursed me as he struggled, with 
the most terrible imprecations. ‘They may get 
me yet. Let me go ! ’ 

‘Not till you tell me,’ I cried. ‘Tell me and 
I ’ll protect you. If they come near I *11 let you 
go. Who are they, man ? I must know.’ 

He struggled up from the ground, clearing his 
hot eyes from the ashes that were in them, and 
putting aside his singed hair. He gave me a 
glance of hatred and impotent resistance (for I 
was stronger than he), and then cast a wild terri- 
fied look back. The skirmishers did not seem 
9 


130 THE LIITLE PILGRIM. 

to remark that anybody had escaped, and he be- 
came gradually a little more composed. ‘ Who 
are they ? ’ he said hoarsely. ‘ They ’re cursed 
wretches like you and me; and there are as 
many, bands of them as there are mines on the 
road ; and you ’d better turn back and stay 
where you are. You are safe here.’ 

‘ I will not turn back,’ I said. 

‘ I know well enough : you can’t. You ’ve 
got to go the round like the rest,’ he said with 
a laugh which was like a sound uttered by a wild 
animal rather than a human voice. The man 
was in my power, and I struck him, miserable as 
he was. It seemed a relief thus to get rid of 
some of the fury in my mind. ‘ It ’s a lie,’ I 
said ; ‘ I go because I please. Why should n’t 
I gather a band of my own if I please, and fight 
those brutes, not fly from them like you?’ 

He chuckled and laughed below his breath, 
struggling and cursing and crying out, as I 
struck him again, * You gather a band ! What 
could you offer them? Where would you find 
them ? Are you better than the rest of us ? Are 
you not a man like the rest? Strike me you 
can, for I ’m down. But make yourself a master 
and a chief — you ! ’ 

‘ Why not I ? ’ I shouted again, wild with rage 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 131 

and the sense that I had no power over him, 
save to hurt him. That passion made my hands 
tremble ; he slipped from me in a moment, 
bounded from the ground like a ball, and with a 
yell of derison escaped, and plunged into the 
streets and the clamor of the city from which I 
had just flown. I felt myself rage after him, 
shaking my fists with a consciousness of the 
ridiculous passion of impotence that was in me, 
but no power of restraining it j and there was not 
one of the fugitives who passed, however despe- 
rate he might be, who did not make a mock at 
me as he darted by. The laughing-stock of all 
those miserable objects, the sport of fate, afraid 
to go forwards, unable to go back, with a fire in 
my veins urging me on ! But presently I grew 
a little calmer out of mere exhaustion, which was 
all the relief that was possible to me. And by 
and by, collecting all my faculties, and impelled 
by this impulse, which I seemed unable to resist, 
I got up and went cautiously on. 

Fear can act in two ways : it paralyzes, and it 
renders cunning. At this moment I found it 
inspire me. I made my plans before I started, 
how to steal along under the cover of the 
blighted brushwood which broke the line of the 
valley here and there. I set out only after long 


132 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

thought, seizing the moment when the vaguely 
perceived band were scouring in the other di- 
rection intercepting the travellers. Thus, with 
many pauses, I got near to the pit’s mouth in 
safety. But my curiosity was as great as, almost 
greater than my terror. I had kept far from the 
road, dragging myself sometimes on hands and 
feet over broken ground, tearing my clothes and 
my flesh upon the thorns ; and on that farther 
side all seemed so silent and so dark in the 
shadow cast by some disused machinery, behind 
which the glare of the fire from below blazed 
upon the other side of the opening, that I could 
not crawl along in the darkness, and pass, which 
would have been the safe way, but with a breath- 
less hot desire to see and know, dragged myself to 
the very edge to look down. Though I was in 
the shadow, my eyes were nearly put out by the 
glare on which I gazed. It was not fire ; it was 
the lurid glow of the gold, glowing like flame, at 
which countless miners were working. They 
were all about like flies, — some on their knees, 
some bent double as they stooped over their 
work, some lying cramped upon shelves and 
ledges. The sight was wonderful, and terrible 
beyond description. The workmen seemed to 
consume away with the heat and the glow, even 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


133 


in the few minutes I gazed. Their eyes shrank 
into their heads ; their faces blackened. I could 
see some trying to secrete morsels of the glowing 
metal, which burned whatever it touched, and 
some who were being searched by the superiors 
of the mines, and some who were punishing the 
offenders, fixing them up against the blazing 
wall of gold. The fear went out of my mind, so 
much absorbed was I in this sight. I gazed, 
seeing farther and farther every moment into 
crevices and seams of the glowing metal, always 
with more and more slaves at work, and the entire 
pantomime of labor and theft, and search and 
punishment, going on and on, — the baked faces 
dark against the golden glare, the hot eyes tak- 
ing a yellow reflection, the monotonous clamor 
of pick and shovel, and cries and curses, and all 
the indistinguishable sound of a multitude of 
human creatures. And the floor below, and the 
low roof which overhung whole myriads within a 
few inches of their faces, and the irregular walls 
all breached and shelved, were every one the 
same, a pandemonium of gold, — gold every^ 
where. I had loved many foolish things in my 
life, but never this ;• which was perhaps why I 
gazed and kept my sight, though there rose out 
of it a blast of heat which scorched the brain. 


^34 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


While I Stooped over, intent on the sight, some 
one who had come up by my side to gaze too was 
caught by the fumes (as I suppose), for suddenly 
I was aware of a dark object falling prone into 
the glowing interior with a cry and crash which 
brought back my first wild panic. He fell in a 
heap, from which his arms shot forth wildly as he 
reached the bottom, and his cry was half anguish 
yet half desire. I saw him seized by half a dozen 
eager watchers, and pitched upon a ledge just 
under the roof, and tools thrust into his hands. 
I held on by an old shaft, trembling, unable to 
move. Perhaps I cried too in my horror, — for 
one of the overseers who stood in the centre of 
the glare looked up. He had the air of ordering 
all that was going on, and stood unaffected by 
the blaze, commanding the other wretched offi- 
cials, who obeyed him like dogs. He seemed to 
me, in my terror, like a figure of gold, the image 
perhaps of wealth or Pluto, or I know not what, 
for I suppose my brain began to grow confused, 
and my hold on the shaft to relax. I had 
strength enough, however (for I cared not for the 
gold), to fling myself back the other way upon the 
ground, where I rolled backwards, downwards, 
I knew not how, turning over and over upon 
sharp ashes and metallic edges, which tore my 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 35 

hair and beard, — and for a moment I knew no 
more. 

This fall saved me. I came to myself after 
a lime, and heard the press-gang searching about. 
I had sense to lie still among the ashes thrown 
up out of the pit, while I heard their voices. 
Once I gave myself up for lost. The glitter of 
a lantern flashed in my eyes, a foot passed, 
crashing among the ashes so close to my cheek 
that the shoe grazed it. I found the mark after, 
burned upon my flesh ; but I escaped notice by 
a miracle. And presently I was able to drag 
myself up and crawl away ; but how I reached 
the end of the valley I cannot tell. I pushed 
my way along mechanically on the da^k side. 
I had no further desire to see what was going 
on in the openings of the mines. I went on, 
stumbling and stupid, scarcely capable even of 
fear, conscious only of wretchedness and weari- 
ness, till at last I felt myself drop across the 
road within the gateway of the other town, and 
lay there with no thought of anything but the 
relief of being at rest. 

When I came to myself, it seemed to me that 
there was a change in the atmosphere and the 
light. It was less lurid, paler, gray, more like 
twilight than the stormy afternoon of the other 


136 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


city. A certain dead serenity was in the sky, — 
a black paleness, whiteness, everything faint in 
it. This town was walled, but the gates stood 
open, and I saw no defences of troops or other 
guardians. I found myself lying across the 
threshold, but pushed to one side, so that the 
carriages which went and came should not be 
stopped or I injured by their passage. It seemed 
to me that there was some thoughtfulness and 
kindness in this action, and my heart sprang up 
in a reaction of hope. I looked back as if 
upon a nightmare on the dreadful city which I 
had left, on its tumults and noise, the wild racket 
of the streets, the wounded wretches who sought 
refuge in the corners, the strife and misery that 
were abroad, and, climax of all, the horrible en- 
tertainment which had been going on in the 
square, the unhappy being strapped upon the 
table. How, I said to myself, could such things 
be? Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare ? Was 
it something presented to me in a vision, — a 
strong delusion to make me think that the old 
fables which had been told concerning the end 
of mortal life were true ? When I looked back 
it appeared like an allegory, so that I might 
have seen it in a dream ; and still more like an 
allegory were the gold mines in the valley, and 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 137 

the myriads who labored there. Was it all 
true, or only a reflection from the old life 
mingling with the strange novelties which would 
most likely elude understanding on the entrance 
into this new? I sat within the shelter of the 
gateway on my awakening, and thought over 
all this. My heart was calm, — almost, in the 
revulsion from the terrors I had been through, 
happy. I persuaded myself that I was but now 
beginning; that there had been no reality in 
these latter experiences, only a curious succes- 
sion of nightmares, such as might so well be 
supposed to follow a wonderful transformation 
like that which must take place between our 
mortal life and — the world to come. The 
world to come ! I paused and thought of it 
all, until the heart began to beat loud in my 
breast. What was this where I lay? Another 
world, — a world which was not happiness, not 
bliss? Oh, no; perhaps there was no world of 
bliss save in dreams. This, on the other hand, 
I said to myself, was not misery ; for was not I 
seated here, with a certain tremulousness about 
me, it was true, after all the experiences which, 
supposing them even to have been but dreams, 
I had come through, — a tremulousness very 
comprehensible, and not at all without hope ? 


THE LITILE PILGRIM. 


'38 

I will not say that I believed even what I tried 
to think. Something in me lay like a dark 
shadow in the midst of all my theories ; but yet 
I succeeded to a great degree in convincing 
myself that the hope in me was real, and that 
I was but now beginning — beginning with at 
least a possibility that all might be well. In this 
half conviction, and after all the troubles that 
were over (even though they might only have 
been imaginary troubles), I felt a certain sweet- 
ness in resting there within the gateway, with 
my back against it. I was unwilling to get up 
again, and bring myself in contact with reality. 
I felt that there was pleasure in being left alone. 
Carriages rolled past me occasionally, and now 
and then some people on foot ; but they did not 
kick me out of the way or interfere with my 
repose. 

Presently as I sat trying to persuade myself 
to rise and pursue my way, two men came up 
to me in a sort of uniform. I recognized with 
another distinct sensation of pleasure that here 
were people who had authority, representatives 
of some kind of government. They came up 
to me and bade me come with them in tones 
which were peremptory enough ; but what of 
that? — better the most peremptory supervision 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 39 

than the lawlessness from which I had come. 
They raised me from the ground with a touch, 
for I could not resist them, and led me quickly 
along the street into which that gateway gave 
access, which was a handsome street with tall 
houses on either side. Groups of people were 
moving about along the pavement, talking now 
and then with considerable animation ; but when 
my companions were seen, there was an imme- 
diate moderation of tone, a sort of respect which 
looked like fear. There was no brawling nor 
tumult of any kind in the street. The only in- 
cident that occurred was this : when we had 
gone some way, I saw a lame man dragging 
himself along with difficulty on the other side 
of the street. My conductors had no sooner 
perceived him than they gave each other a look 
and darted across, conveying me with them, by 
a sweep of magnetic influence, I thought, that 
prevented me from staying behind. He made 
an attempt with his crutches to get out of the 
way, hurrying on — and I will allow that this 
attempt of his seemed to me very grotesque, so 
that I could scarcely help laughing ; the other 
lookers-on in the street laughed too, though 
some put on an aspect of disgust. ^Look, the 
tortoise ! ’ some one said ; ‘ does he think he can 


140 THE LHTLE PILGRIM. 

go quicker than the orderlies ? ’ My companions 
came up to the man while this commentary was 
going on, and seized him by each arm. ‘ Where 
were you going? Where have you come from? 
How dare you make an exhibition of yourself? ’ 
they cried. They took the crutches from him 
as they spoke and threw them away, and dragged 
him on until we reached a great grated door 
which one of them opened with a key, while 
the other held the offender (for he seemed an 
offender) roughly up by one shoulder, causing 
him great pain. When the door was opened, I 
saw a number of people within, who seemed to 
crowd to the door as if seeking to get out ; but 
this was not at all what was intended. My 
second companion dragged the lame man for- 
wards, and pushed him in with so much violence 
that I could see him fall forwards on his face on 
the floor. Then the other locked the door, and 
we proceeded on our way. It was not till some 
time later that I understood why. 

In the mean time I was hurried on, meeting a 
great many people who took no notice of me, 
to a central building in the middle of the town, 
where I was brought before an official attended 
by clerks, with great books spread out before 
him. Here I was questioned as to my name and 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 141 

my antecedents and the time of my arrival, then 
dismissed with a nod to one of my conductors. 
He led me back again down the street, took me 
into one of the tall great houses, opened the door 
of a room which was numbered, and left me there 
without a word. I cannot convey to any one the 
bewildered consternation with which I felt myself 
deposited here ; and as the steps of my conductor 
died away in the long corridor, I sat down, and 
looking myself in the face, as it were, tried to 
make out what it was that had happened to 
me. The room was small and bare. There was 
but one thing hung upon the undecorated walls, 
and that was a long list of printed regulations 
which I had not the courage for the moment to 
look at. The light was indifferent, though the 
room was high up, and the street from the win- 
dow looked far away below. I cannot tell how 
long I sat there thinking, and yet it could 
scarcely be called thought. I asked myself over 
and over again, Where am I ? is it a prison ? am 
I shut in, to leave this enclosure no more ? what 
am I to do? how is the time to pass? I shut 
my eyes for a moment and tried to realize all 
that had happened to me ; but nothing save a 
whirl through my head of disconnected thoughts 
seemed possible, and some force was upon me 


142 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


to Open my eyes again, to see the blank room, 
the dull light, the vacancy round me in which 
there was nothing to interest the mind, noth- 
ing to please the eye, — a blank wherever I 
turned. Presently there came upon me a burn- 
ing regret for everything I had left, — for the 
noisy town with all its tumults and cruelties, for 
the dark valley with all its dangers. Everything 
seemed bearable, almost agreeable, in compari- 
son with this. I seemed to have been brought 
here to make acquaintance once more with my- 
self, to learn over again what manner of man 1 
was. Needless knowledge, acquaintance unne- 
cessary, unhappy ! for what was there in me to 
make me to myself a good companion? Never, 
I knew, could I separate myself from that eter- 
nal consciousness ; but it was cruelty to force 
the contemplation upon me. All blank, blank 
around me, a prison ! And was this to last 
forever ? 

I do not know how long I sat, rapt in this 
gloomy vision ; but at last it occurred to me to 
rise and try the door, which to my astonishment 
was open. I went out with a throb of new hope. 
After all, it might not be necessary to come 
back. There might be other expedients ; I might 
fall among friends. I turned down the long 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


143 


echoing stairs, on which I met various people, 
who took no notice of me, and in whom I felt 
no interest save a desire to avoid them, and at 
last reached the street. To be out of doors in 
the air was something, though there was no wind, 
but a motionless still atmosphere which nothing 
disturbed. The streets, indeed, were full of 
movement, but not of life — though this seems a 
paradox. The passengers passed on their way 
in long regulated lines, — those who went towards 
the gates keeping rigorously to one side of the 
pavement, those who came, to the other. They 
talked to each other here and there ; but when- 
ever two men in uniform, such as those who had 
been my conductors, appeared, silence ensued, 
and the wayfarers shrank even from the looks of 
these persons in authority. I walked all about 
the spacious town. Everywhere there were tall 
houses, everywhere streams of people coming 
and going, but no one spoke to me, or remarked 
me at all. I was as lonely as if I had been in a 
wilderness. I was indeed in a wilderness of 
men, who w'ere as though they did not see me, 
passing without even a look of human fellowship, 
each absorbed in his own concerns. I walked 
and walked till my limbs trembled under me, 
from one end to another of the great streets, up 


144 


THE LIITLE PILGRIM. 


and down, and round and round. But no one 
said, How are you ? Whence come you ? What 
are you doing? At length in despair I turned 
again to the blank and miserable room, which 
had looked to me like a cell in a prison. I had 
wilfully made no note of its situation, trying to 
avoid rather than to find it, but my steps were 
drawn thither against my will. I found myself 
retracing my steps, mounting the long stairs, 
passing the same people, who streamed along 
with no recognition of me, as I desired nothing 
to do with them ; and at last found myself within 
the same four blank walls as before. 

Soon after I returned I became conscious of 
measured steps passing the door, and of an eye 
upon me. I can say no more than this. From 
what point it was that I was inspected I cannot 
tell; but that I was inspected, closely scruti- 
nized by some one, and that not only externally, 
but by a cold observation that went through and 
through me, I knew and felt beyond any possi- 
bility of mistake. This recurred from time to 
time, horribly, at uncertain moments, so that I 
never felt myself secure from it. I knew when 
the watcher was coming by tremors and shiver- 
ings through all my being ; and no sensation so 
unsupportable has it ever been mine to bear. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


145 


How much that is to say, no one can tell who 
has not p^one through those regions of darkness, 
and learned what is in all their abysses. I tried 
at first to hide, to fling myself on the floor, to 
cover my face, to burrow in a dark corner. 
Useless attempts ! The eyes that looked in 
Upon me had powers beyond my powers. I felt 
sometimes conscious of the derisive smile with 
which my miserable subterfuges were regarded. 
They were all in vain. 

And what was still more strange was that I 
had not energy to think of attempting any 
escape. My steps, though watched, were not 
restrained in any way, so far as I was aware. 
The gates of the city stood open on all sides, 
free to those who went as well as to those who 
came ; but I did not think of flight. Of flight ! 
Whence should I go from myself? Though that 
horrible inspection was from the eyes of some 
unseen being, it was in some mysterious way 
connected with my own thinking and reflections, 
so that the thought came ever more and more 
strongly upon me, that from myself I could 
never escape. And that reflection took all 
energy, all impulse from me. I might have 
gone away when I pleased, beyond reach of the 
authority which regulated everything, — how one 


146 THE LITTLE PILGRBI. 

should walk, where one should live, — but never 
from my own consciousness. On the other side 
of the town lay a great plain, traversed by roads 
on every side. There was no reason why I 
should not continue my journey there ; but I 
did not. I had no wish nor any power in me 
to go away. 

In one of my long, dreary, companionless 
walks, unshared by any human fellowship, I saw 
at last a face which I remembered ; it was that of 
the cynical spectator who had spoken to me in 
the noisy street, in the midst, of my early expe- 
riences. He gave a glance round him to see 
that there were no officials in sight, then left the 
file in which he was walking, and joined me. 
‘ Ah ! ’ he said, ^ you are here already,’ with the 
same derisive smile with which he had before 
regarded me. I hated the man and his sneer, 
yet that he should speak to me was something, 
almost a pleasure. 

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am here.’ Then, after a 
pause, in which I did not know what to say, ‘ It 
is quiet here,’ I said. 

‘ Quiet enough. Do you like it better for 
that ? To do whatever you please with no one to 
interfere ; or to do nothing you please, but as you 
are forced to do it, — which do you think is best ? ’ 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


147 


I felt myself instinctively glance round, as he 
had done, to make sure that no one was in sight. 
Then I answered, faltering, ‘ I have always held 
that law and order were necessary things; and 
the lawlessness of that — that place — I don’t 
know its name — if there is such a place,’ I 
cried, ‘ I thought it was a dream.’ 

He laughed in his mocking way. ‘ Perhaps it 
is all a dream ; who knows ? ’ he said. 

‘ Sir,’ said I, ‘ you have been longer here than 
I—’ 

^ Oh,’ cried he, with a laugh that was dry and 
jarred upon the air almost like a shriek, ‘ since 
before your forefathers were born ! ’ It seemed 
to me that he spoke like one who, out of bitter- 
ness and despite, made every darkness blacker 
still. A kind of madman in his way; for what 
was this claim of age ? — a pieqp of bravado, no 
doubt, like the rest. 

‘That is strange,’ I said, assenting, as when 
there is such a hallucination it is best to do. 
‘ You can tell me, then, whence all this authority 
comes, and why we are obliged to obey.’ 

He looked at me as if he were thinking in his 
mind how to hurt me most. Then, with that 
dry laugh, ‘ We make trial of all things in this 
world,’ he said, ‘ to see if perhaps we can find 


148 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


something we shall like, — discipline here, free- 
dom in the other place. When you have gone 
all the round like me, then perhaps you will be 
able to choose.’ 

^ Have you chosen ? ’ I asked. 

He only answered with a laugh. ‘ Come,’ he 
said, ‘ there is amusement to be had too, and 
that of the most elevated kind. We make re- 
searches here into the moral nature of man. 
Will you come } But you must take the risk,’ 
he added with a smile which afterwards I 
understood. 

We went on together after this till we reached 
the centre of the place, in which stood an im- 
mense building with a dome, which dominated 
the city, and into a great hall in the centre of 
that, where a crowd of people were assembled. 
The sound of l^man speech, which murmured 
all around, brought new life to my heart. And 
as I gazed at a curious apparatus erected on a 
platform, several people spoke to me. 

^ We have again,’ said one, ‘ the old subject 
to-day.’ 

‘ Is it something about the constitution of the 
place ? ’ I asked in the bewilderment of my mind. 

My neighbors looked at me with alarm, glancing 
behind them to see what officials might be near. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 49 

^The constitution of the .place is the result of 
the sense of the inhabitants that order must be 
preserved,’ said the one who had spoken to me 
first. ‘The lawless can find refuge in other 
places. Here we have chosen to have super- 
vision, nuisances removed, and order kept. 
That is enough. The constitution is not under 
discussion.’ 

‘ But man is,’ said a second speaker. ‘ Let us 
keep to that in which we can mend nothing. 
Sir, you may have to contribute your quota to 
our enlightenment. We are investigating the 
rise of thought. You are a stranger; you may 
be able to help us.’ 

‘ I am no philosopher,’ I said with a panic 
which I could not explain to myself. 

‘ That does not matter. You are a fresh sub- 
ject.’ The speaker made a slight movement 
with his hand, and I turned round to escape in 
wild, sudden fright, though I had no conception 
what could be done to me ; but the crowd had 
pressed close round me, hemming me in on 
every side. I was so wildly alarmed that I 
struggled among them, pushing backwards with 
all my force, and clearing a space round me with 
my arms ; but my efforts were vain. Two of 
the officers suddenly appeared out of the crowd, 


iro 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


and seizing me by the arms, forced me forwards. 
The throng dispersed before them on either side, 
and I was half dragged, half lifted up upon the 
platform, where stood the strange apparatus which 
1 had contemplated with a dull wonder when I 
came into the hall. My wonder did not last 
long. I felt myself fixed in it, standing sup- 
ported in that position by bands and springs, so 
that no effort of mine was necessary to hold my- 
self up, and none possible to release myself. I 
was caught by every joint, sustained, supported, 
exposed to the gaze of what seemed a world of 
upturned faces ; among which I saw, with a 
sneer upon it, keeping a little behind the crowd, 
the face of the man who had led me here. 
Above my head was a strong light, more brilliant 
than anything I had ever seen, and which blazed 
upon my brain till the hair seemed to singe and 
the skin shrink. I hope I may never feel such a 
sensation again. The pitiless light went into me 
like a knife ; but even my cries were stopped by 
the framework in which I was bound. I could 
breathe and suffer, but that was all. 

Then some one got up on the platform above 
me and began to speak. He said, so far as I 
could comprehend in the anguish and torture in 
which I was held, that the origin of thought was 


THE L.\ND OF DARKNESS. 151 

the question he was investigating, but that in 
every previous subject the confusion of ideas 
had bewildered them, and the rapidity with 
which one followed another. ‘ The present ex- 
ample has been found to exhibit great persist- 
ency of idea,’ he said. ‘ We hope that by his 
means some clearer theory may be arrived at.’ 
Then he pulled over me a great movable lens as 
of a microscope, which concentrated the insup- 
portable light. The wild, hopeless passion that 
raged within my soul had no outlet in the im- 
movable apparatus that held me. I was let 
down among the crowd, and exhibited to them 
every secret movement of my being, by some 
awful process which I have never fathomed. A 
burning fire was in my brain ; flame seemed to 
run along all my nerves ; speechless, horrible, in- 
communicable fury raged in my soul. But I 
was like a child — nay, like an image of wood or 
wax — in the pitiless hands that held me. What 
was the cut of a surgeon’s knife to this ? And I 
had thought that cruel ! And I was powerless, 
and could do nothing — to blast, to destroy, to 
burn with this same horrible flame the fiends 
that surrounded me, as I desired to do. 

Suddenly, in the raging fever of my thoughts, 
there surged up the recollection of that word 


152 THE LIITLE PILGRIM. 

which had paralyzed all around, and myself with 
them. The thought that I must share the an- 
guish did not restrain me from my revenge. 
With a tremendous effort I got my voice, though 
the instrument pressed upon my lips. I know 
not what I articulated save ‘God,’ whether it 
was a curse or a blessing. I had been swung out 
into the middle of the hall, and hung amid the 
crowd, exposed to all their observations, when 
I succeeded in gaining utterance. My God ! 
my God ! Another moment and I had forgot- 
ten them and all my fury in the tortures that 
arose within myself. What, then, was the light 
that racked my brain ? Once more my life from 
its beginning to its end rose up before me, — 
each scene like a spectre, like the harpies of the 
old fables rending me with tooth and claw. 
Once more I saw what might have been, the 
noble things I might have done, the happiness 
I had lost, the turnings of the fated road which 
I might have taken, — everything that was once 
so possible, so possible, so easy ! but now pos- 
sible no more. My anguish was immeasurable ; 
I turned and wrenched myself, in the strength 
of pain, out of the machinery that held me, and 
fell down, down among all the curses that were 
being hurled at me, — among the horrible and 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 53 

miserable crowd. I had brought upon them the 
evil which I shared, and they fell upon me with 
a fury which was like that which had prompted 
myself a few minutes before; but they could 
do nothing to me so tremendous as the ven- 
geance I had taken upon them. I was too 
miserable to feel the blows that rained upon me, 
but presently I suppose I lost consciousness 
altogether, being almost torn to pieces by the 
multitude. • 

While this lasted, it seemed to me that I had 
a dream. I felt the blows raining down upon 
me, and my body struggling upon the ground ; 
and yet it seemed to me that I was lying outside 
upon the ground, and above me the pale sky 
which never brightened at the touch of the sun. 
And I thought that dull, persistent cloud wavered 
and broke for an instant, and that I saw behind 
a glimpse of that blue which is heaven when we 
are on the earth — the blue sky — which is no- 
where to be seen but in the mortal life ; which 
is heaven enough, which is delight enough, for 
those who can look up to it, and feel themselves 
in the land of hope. It might be but a dream ; 
in this strange world who could tell what was 
vision and what was true? 

The next thing I remember was that I found 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


^54 

myself lying on the floor of a great room full of 
people with every kind of disease and deformity, 
some pale with sickness, some with fresh wounds, 
the lame, and the maimed, and the miserable. 
They lay round me in every attitude of pain, 
many with sores, some bleeding, with broken 
limbs, but all struggling, some on hands and 
knees, dragging themselves up from the ground 
to stare at me. They roused in my mind • a 
loathing and sense of disgifst which it is impos- 
sible to express. I could scarcely tolerate* the 
thought that I — I ! should be forced to remain 
a moment in this lazar-house. The feeling with 
which I had' regarded the miserable creature 
who shared the corner of the wall with me, and 
who had cursed me for being sorry for him, had 
altogether gone’ out of my mind. I called out, 
to whom I know not, adjuring, some one to open 
the door and set me free ; but my cry was 
answered only by a shout from my companions 
in trouble. ^ Who do you think will let you 
out ? ’ ‘ Who is going to help you more than 

the rest?’ My whole body was racked with 
pain; I could not move from the floor, on 
which I lay. I had to put up with the stares 
of the curious, and the mockeries and remarks 
on me of whoever chose to criticise. Among 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 55 

them was the lame man whom I had seen 
thrust in by the two officers who had taken me 
from the gate. He was the first to jibe. ^But 
for him they would never have seen me,’ he 
said. ‘ I should have been well by this time 
in the fresh air.’ ‘ It is his turn now,’ said 
another. I turned my head as well as I could 
and spoke to them all. 

‘ I am a stranger here,’ I cried. ‘ They have 
made my brain bum with their experiments. 
Will nobody help me? It is no fault of mine, 
it is their fault. If I am to be left here uncared 
for, I shall die.’ 

At this a sort of dreadful chuckle ran round 
the place. ‘ If that is what you are afraid of, 
you will not die,’ somebody said, touching me 
Dn my head in a way which gave me intoler- 
able pain. ‘Don’t touch me,’ I cried. ‘Why 
should n’t IP’ said the other, and pushed me 
again upon the throbbing brain. So far as my 
sensations went, there were no coverings at all, 
neither skull nor skin upon the intolerable throb- 
bing of my head, which had been exposed to 
the curiosity of the crowd, and every touch 
was agony ; but my cry brought no guardian, 
nor any defence or soothing. I dragged myself 
into a corner after a time, from which some 


156 THE LITFLE PILGRIM. 

other wretch had been rolled out in the course 
of a quarrel ; and as I found that silence was the 
only policy, I kept silent, with rage consuming 
my heart. 

Presently I discovered by means of the new 
arrivals which kept coming in, hurled into the 
midst of us without thought or question, that 
this was the common fate of all who were re- 
pulsive to the sight, or who had any weakness 
or imperfection which offended the eyes of the 
population. They were tossed in among us, 
not to be healed, or for repose or safety, but 
to be out of sight, that they might not disgust 
or annoy those who were more fortunate, to 
whom no injury had happened ; and because 
in their sickness and imperfection they were 
of no use in the studies of the place, and dis- 
turbed the good order of the streets. And there 
they lay one above another, — a mass of bruised 
and broken creatures, most of them suffering 
from injuries which they had sustained in what 
would have been called in other regions the 
service of the State. They had served like my- 
self as objects of experiments. They had fallen 
from heights where they had been placed in 
illustration of some theory. They had been 
tortured or twisted to give satisfaction to some 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 157 

question. And then, that the consequences of 
these proceedings might offend no one’s eyes, 
they were flung into this receptacle, to be re- 
leased if chance or strength enabled them to 
push their way out when others were brought 
in, or when their importunate knocking wearied 
some watchman, and brought him angry and 
threatening to hear what was wanted. The 
sound of this knocking against the door, and 
of the cries that accompanied it, and the rush 
towards the opening when any one was brought 
in, caused a hideous continuous noise and scuffle 
which was agony to my brain. Every one pushed 
before the other ; there was an endless rising and 
falling as in the changes of a feverish dream, each 
man as he got strength to struggle forwards him- 
self, thrusting back his neighbors, and those who 
were nearest to the door beating upon it without 
cease, like the beating of a drum without cadence 
or measure, sometimes a dozen passionate hands 
together, making a horrible din and riot. As I 
lay unable to join in that struggle, and moved 
by rage unspeakable towards all who could, I 
reflected strangely that I had never heard when 
outside this horrible continual appeal of the 
suffering. In the streets of the city, as I now 
reflected, quiet reigned. I had even made com- 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


■58 

parisons on my first entrance, in the moment 
of pleasant anticipation which came over me, 
of the happy stillness here with the horror and 
tumult of that place of unrule which I had left. 

When my thoughts reached this point I was 
answered by the voice of some one on a level 
with myself, lying helpless like me on the floor 
of the lazar-house. ‘ They have taken their pre- 
cautions,’ he said ; ‘ if they will not endure the 
sight of suffering, how should they hear the sound 
of it? Every cry is silenced there.’ 

‘ I wish they could be silenced within too,’ I 
cried savagely ; * I would make them dumb had 
I the power.’ 

‘The spirit of the place is in you,’ said the 
other voice. 

‘And not in you?’ I said, raising my head, 
though every movement was agony ; but this pre- 
tence of superiority was more than I could bear. 

The other made no answer for a moment ; 
then he said faintly, ‘ If it is so, it is but for 
greater misery.’ 

And then his voice died away, and the hubbub 
of beating and crying and cursing and groaning 
filled all the echoes. They cried, but no one 
listened to them. They thundered on the door, 
but in vain. They aggravated all their pangs in 


THE I^ND OF DARKNESS. 1 59 

that mad struggle to get free. After a while my 
companion, whoever he was, spoke again. 

‘ They would rather,’ he said, ‘ lie on the road- 
side to be kicked and trodden on, as we have 
seen ; though to see that made you miserable.’ 

‘ Made me miserable ! You mock me,’ I said. 
‘ Why should a man be miserable save for suffer- 
ing of his own ? ’ 

‘ You thought otherwise once,’ my neighbor 
said. 

And then I remembered the wretch in the 
corner of the wall in the other town, who had 
cursed me for pitying him. I cursed myself now 
for that folly. Pity him ! was he not better off 
than I ? ‘I wish,’ I cried, ‘ that I could crush 
them into nothing, and be rid of this infernal 
noise they make!’ 

‘ The spirit of the place has entered into you,’ 
said that voice. 

I raised my arm to strike him ; but my hand 
fell on the stone floor instead, and sent a jar of 
new pain all through my battered frame. And 
then I mastered my rage and lay still, for I knew 
there was no way but this of recovering my 
strength, — the strength with which, when I got 
it back, I would annihilate that reproachful voice 
and crush the life out of those groaning fools. 


l6o THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

whose cries and impotent struggles I could not 
endure. And we lay a long time without moving, 
with always that tumult raging in our ears. At 
last there came into my mind a longing to hear 
spoken words again. I said, ‘Are you still 
there ? ’ 

‘ I shall be here,’ he said, ‘ till I am able to 
begin again.’ 

‘ To begin ! Is there here, then, either begin- 
ning or ending ? Go on ; speak to me ; it makes 
me a little forget my pain.’ 

‘ I have a fire in my heart,’ he said ; ‘ I must 
begin and begin — till perhaps I find the way.’ 

‘ What way ? ’ I cried, feverish and eager ; for 
though I despised him, 5'et it made me wonder 
to think that he should speak riddles which I 
could not understand. 

He answered very faintly, ‘ I do not know.’ 
The fool ! then it was only folly, as from the first 
I knew it was. I felt then that I could treat him 
roughly, after the fashion of the place — which 
he said had got into me. ‘ Poor wretch ! ’ I said, 
‘ you have hopes, have you ? Where have you 
come from? You might have learned better 
before now.’ 

‘ I have come,’ he said, ‘ from where we met 
before. I have come by the valley of gold. I 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. l6l 

have worked in the mines. I have served in the 
troops of those who are masters there. I have 
lived in this town of tyrants, and lain in this lazar- 
house before. Everything has happened to me, 
more and worse than you dream of.’ 

* And still you go on ? I would dash my head 
against the wall and die.’ 

‘ When will you learn,’ he said with a strange 
tone in his voice, which, though no one had been 
listening to us, made a sudden silence for a mo- 
ment, it was so strange ; it moved me like that 
glimmer of the blue sky in my dream, and roused 
all the sufferers round with an expectation — 
though I know not what. The cries stopped ; the 
hands beat no longer. I think all the miserable 
crowd were still, and turned to where he lay. 
‘ When will you learn — that you have died, and 
can die no more ? ’ 

There was a shout of fury all around me. ‘Is 
that all you have to say ? ’ the crowd burst forth ; 
and I think they rushed upon him and killed 
him, for I heard no more until the hubbub 
began again more wild than ever, with furious 
hands beating, beating against the locked door. 

After a while I began to feel my strength come 
back. I raised my head. I sat up. I began 
to see the faces of those around me, and the 


i 62 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


groups into which they gathered ; the noise was 
no longer so insupportable, — my racked nerves 
were regaining health. It was with a mixture of 
pleasure and despair that I became conscious of 
this. I had been through many deaths ; but I 
did not die, perhaps could not, as that man had 
said. I looked about for him, to see if he had 
contradicted his own theory. But he was not 
dead. He was lying close to me, covered with 
wounds ; but he opened his eyes, and something 
like a smile came upon his lips. A smile, — I 
had heard laughter, and seen ridicule and deri- 
sion, but this I had not seen. I could not bear 
it. To seize him and shake the little remaining 
life out of him was my impulse ; but neither did 
I obey that. Again he reminded me of my 
dream — was it a dream? — of the opening in 
the clouds. From that moment I tried to shel- 
ter him, and as I grew stronger and stronger 
and pushed my way to the door, I dragged him 
along with me. How long the struggle was I 
cannot tell, or how often I was balked, or how 
many darted through before me when the door 
was opened. But I did not let him go ; and at 
last, for now I was as strong as before, — stronger 
than most about me, — I got out into the air and 
brought him with me. Into the air ! it was an 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 63 

atmosphere so still and motionless that there was 
no feeling of life in it, as I have said ; but the 
change seemed to me happiness for the moment. 
It was freedom. The noise of the struggle was 
over ; the horrible sights were left behind. My 
spirit sprang up as if I had been born into new 
life. It had the same effect, I suppose, upon 
my companion, though he was much weaker than 
I, for he rose to his feet at once with almost a 
leap of eagerness, and turned instantaneously 
towards the other side of the city. 

* Not that way,’ I said ; ‘ come with me and 
rest.’ 

* No rest — no rest — my rest is to go on ; ’ 
and then he turned towards me and smiled and 
said, ^ Thanks ’ — looking into my face. What a 
word to hear ! I had not heard it since — A 
rush of strange and sweet and dreadful thoughts 
came into my mind. I shrank and trembled, 
and let go his arm, which I had been holding ; 
but when I left that hold I seemed to fall back 
into depths of blank pain and longing. I put 
out my hand again and caught him. ‘ I will go,’ 
I .said, ‘ where you go.’ 

A pair of the officials of the place passed as I 
spoke. They looked at me with a threatening 
glance, and half paused, but then passed on. It 


i64 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


was I now who hurried my companion along. 
I recollected him now. He was a man who had 
met me in the streets of the other city when I 
was still ignorant, who had convulsed me with 
the utterance of that name which, in all this world 
where we were, is never named but for punish- 
ment, — the name which I had named once 
more in the great hall in the midst of my torture, 
so that all who heard me were transfixed with 
that suffering too. He had been haggard then, 
but’ he was more haggard now. His features 
were sharp with continual pain ; his eyes were 
wild with weakness and trouble, though there was 
a meaning in them which went to my heart. It 
seemed to me that in his touch there was a cer- 
tain help, though he was weak and tottered, and 
every moment seemed full of suffering. Hope 
sprang up in my mind, — the hope that where he 
was so eager to go there would be something 
better, a life more livable than in this place. In 
every new place there is new hope. I was not 
worn out of that human impulse. I forgot the 
nightmare which had crushed me before, — the 
horrible sense that from myself there was no 
escape, — and holding fast to his arm, I hurried 
on with him, not heeding where. We went aside 
into less frequented streets, that we might escape 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 165 

observation. I seemed to myself the guide, 
though I was the follower. A great faith in this 
man sprang up in my breast. I was ready to go 
with him wherever he went, anywhere — any- 
where must be better than this. Thus I pushed 
him on, holding by his arm, till we reached the 
very outmost limits of the city. Here he stood 
still for a moment, turning upon me, and took 
me by the hands. 

‘ Friend,’ he said, ‘ before you were born into 
the pleasant earth I had come here. I have 
gone all the weary round. Listen to one who 
knows : all is harder, harder, as you go on. You 
are stirred to go on by the restlessness in your 
heart, and each new place you come to, the spirit 
of that place enters into you. You are better 
here than you will be farther on. You were 
better where you were at first, or even in the 
mines, than here. Come no farther. Stay; 
unless — ’ but here his voice gave way. He 
looked at me with anxiety in his eyes, and said 
no more. 

‘Then why,’ I cried, ‘do you go on? Why 
do you not stay?’ 

He shook his head, and his eyes grew more 
and more soft. ‘ I am going,’ he said, and his 
voice shook again. ‘ I am going — to try — the 


i66 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


most awful and the most dangerous journey — ’ 
His voice died away altogether, and he only 
looked at me to say the rest. 

* A journey ? Where ? ’ 

I can tell no man what his eyes said. I 
Understood, I cannot tell how; and with trem- 
bling all my limbs seemed to drop out of joint 
and my face grow moist with terror. I could 
not speak any more than he, but with my lips 
shaped, How? The awful thought made a 
tremor in the very air around. He shook his 
head slowly as he looked at me, his eyes, all 
circled with deep lines, looking out of caves of 
anguish and anxiety ; and then I remembered 
how he had said, and I had scoffed at him, that 
the way he sought was one he did not know. I 
had dropped his hands in my fear ; and yet to 
leave him seemed dragging the heart out of my 
breast, for none but he had spoken to me like a 
brother, had taken my hand and thanked me. 
I looked out across the plain, and the roads 
seemed tranquil and still. There was a coolness 
in the air. It looked like evening, as if some- 
where in those far distances there might be a 
place where a weary soul might rest; and I 
looked behind me, and thought what I had suf- 
fered, and remembered the lazar- house and the 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


167 


voices that cried and the hands that beat against 
the door, and also the horrible quiet of the 
room in which I lived, and the eyes which 
looked in at me and turned my gaze upon 
myself. Then I rushed after him, for he had 
turned to go on upon his way, and caught at 
his clothes, crying, ‘ Behold me, behold me ! 
I will go too ! ’ 

He reached me his hand and went on without 
a word ; and I with terror crept after him, tread- 
ing in his steps, following like his shadow. What 
it was to walk Avith another, and follow, and be 
at one, is more than I can tell ; but likewise my 
heart failed me for fear, for dread of what we 
might encounter, and of hearing that name or 
entering that presence which was more terrible 
than all torture. I wondered how it could be 
that one should willingly face that which racked 
the soul, and how he had learned that it was pos- 
sible, and where he had heard of the way. And 
as we went on I said no word, for he began to 
seem to me a being of another kind, a figure full 
of awe ; and I followed as one might follow a 
ghost. Where would he go? Were we not 
fixed here forever, where our lot had been cast? 
And there were still many other great cities where 
there might be much to see, and something to 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


1 68 

distract the mind, and where it might be more 
possible to live than it had proved in the other 
places. There might be no tyrants there, nor 
cruelty, nor horrible noises, nor dreadful silence. 
Towards the right hand, across the plain, there 
seemed to rise out of the gray distance a cluster 
of towers and roofs like another habitable place ; 
and who could tell that something better might 
not be there ? Surely everything could not turn 
to torture and misery. I dragged on behind 
him, with all these thoughts hurrying through my 
mind. He was going — I dare to say it now, 
though I did not dare then — to seek out a way 
to God ; to try, if it was possible, to find the 
road that led back, — that road which had been 
open once to all. But for me, I trembled at the 
thought of that road. I feared the name, which 
was as the plunging of a sword into my inmost 
parts. All things could be borne but that. I 
dared not even think upon that name. To feel 
my hand in another man’s hand was much, but 
to be led into that awful presence, by awful ways, 
which none knew — how could I bear it ? My 
spirits failed me, and my strength. My hand 
became loose in his hand ; he grasped me still, 
but my hold failed, and ever with slower and 
slower steps I followed, while he seemed to 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 169 

acquire strength with every winding of the way. 
At length he said to me, looking back upon me, 
‘ I cannot stop ; but your heart fails you. Shall 
I loose my hand and let you go ? ’ 

‘ I am afraid ; I am afraid ! ’ I cried. 

* And I too am afraid ; but it is better to 
suffer more and to escape than to suffer less and 
to remain.’ 

‘ Has it ever been known that one escaped ? 
No one has ever escaped. This is our place,’ I 
said ; Hhere is no other world.’ 

* There are other worlds ; there is a world 
where every way leads to One who loves us still.’ 

I cried out with a great cry of misery and 
scorn. ‘ There is no love ! ’ I said. 

He stood still for a moment and turned and 
looked at me. His eyes seemed to melt my 
soul. A great cloud passed over them, as in the 
pleasant earth a cloud will sweep across the 
moon ; and then the light came out and looked 
at me again, for neither did he know. Where 
he was going all might end in despair and double 
and double pain. But if it were possible that at 
the end there should be found that for which he 
longed, upon which his heart was set ! He said 
with a faltering voice, ^ Among all whom I have 
questioned and seen, there was but one who 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


170 

found the way. But if one has found it, so may 
I. If you will not come, yet let me go.’ 

^ They will tear you limb from limb ; they 
will burn you in the endless fires,’ I said. But 
what is it to be tom limb from limb, or burned 
with fire? There came upon his face a smile, 
and in my heart even I laughed to scorn what I 
had said. 

^ If I were dragged every nerve apart, and 
every thought turned into a fiery dart, — and that 
is so,’ he said, — ‘ yet will I go, if but perhaps I 
may see Love at the end.’ 

‘ There is no love ! * I cried again with a 
sharp and bitter cry; and the echo seemed to 
come back and back from every side. No love ! 
no love ! till the man who was my friend faltered 
and stumbled like a drunken man ; but after- 
wards he recovered strength and resumed his 
way. 

And thus once more we went on. On the 
right hand was that city, growing ever clearer, 
with noble towers rising up to the sky, and 
battlements and lofty roofs, and behind a yellow 
clearness, as of a golden sunset. My heart drew 
me there ; it sprang up in my breast and sang in 
my ears. Come, and come. Myself invited me 
to this new place as to a home. The others 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 171 

were wretched, but this will be happy, — delights 
and pleasures will be there. And before us the 
way grew dark with storms, and there grew visible 
among the mists a black line of mountains, per- 
pendicular cliffs, and awful precipices, which 
seemed to bar the way. I turned from that line 
of gloomy heights, and gazed along the path to 
where the towers stood up against the sky. And 
presently my hand dropped by my side, that had 
been held in my companion’s hand ; and I saw 
him no more. 

I went on to the city of the evening light. 
Ever and ever, as I proceeded on my way, the 
sense of haste and restless impatience grew upon 
me, so that I felt myself incapable of remaining 
long in a place, and my desire grew stronger to 
hasten on and on ; but when I entered the gates 
of the city this longing vanished from my mind. 
There seemed some great festival or public holi- 
day going on there. The streets were full of 
pleasure-parties, and in every open place (of 
which there were many) were bands of dancers, 
and music playing ; and the houses about were 
hung with tapestries and embroideries and gar- 
lands of flowers. A load seemed to be taken 
from my spirit when I saw all this, — for a whole 
population does not rejoice in such a way with- 


172 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


out some cause. And to think that after all 1 
had found a place in which I might live and 
forget the misery and pain which I had known, 
and all that was behind me, was delightful to my 
soul. It seemed to me that all the dancers were 
beautiful and young, their steps went gayly to the 
music, their faces were bright with smiles. Here 
and there was a master of the feast, who ar- 
ranged the dances and guided the musicians, yet 
seemed to have a look and smile for new-comers 
too. One of these came forwards to meet me, 
and received me with a welcome, and showed 
me a vacant place at the table, on which were 
beautiful fruits piled up in baskets, and all the 
provisions for a meal. ‘You were expected, you 
perceive,’ he said. A delightful sense of well- 
being came into my mind. I sat down in the 
sweetness of ease after fatigue, of refreshment 
after weariness, of pleasant sounds and sights 
after the arid way. I said to myself that my 
past experiences had been a mistake, that this 
was where I ought to have come from the first, 
that life here would be happy, and that all in- 
truding thoughts must soon vanish and die 
away. 

After I had rested, I strolled about, and 
entered fully into the pleasures of the place. 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


173 


Wherever I went, througli all the city, there was 
nothing but brightness and pleasure, music play- 
ing, and flags waving, and flowers and dancers 
and everything that was most gay. I asked 
several people whom I met what was the cause 
of the rejoicing ; but either they were too much 
occupied with their own pleasures, or my ques- 
tion was lost in the hum of merriment, the sound 
of the instruments and of the dancers* feet. 
When I had seen as much as I desired of the 
pleasure out of doors, I was taken by some to 
see the interiors of houses, which were all deco- 
rated for this festival, whatever it was, lighted 
up with curious varieties of lighting, in tints of 
different colors. The doors and windows were 
all open; and whosoever would could come in 
from the dance or from the laden tables, and sit 
down where they pleased and rest, always with a 
pleasant view out upon the streets, so that they 
should lose nothing of the spectacle. And the 
dresses, both of women and men, were beautiful 
in form and color, made in the finest fabrics, 
and affording delightful combinations to the eye. 
The pleasure which I took in all I saw and heard 
was enhanced by the surprise of it, and by the 
aspect of the places from which I had come, 
where there was no regard to beauty nor any- 


174 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


thing lovely or bright. Before my arrival here I 
had come in my thoughts to the conclusion that 
life had no brightness in these regions, and that 
whatever occupation or study there might be, 
pleasure had ended and was over, and every- 
thing that had been sweet in the former life. I 
changed that opinion with a sense of relief, 
which was more warm even than the pleasure of 
the present moment ; for having made one such 
mistake, how could I tell that there were not 
more discoveries awaiting me, that life might not 
prove more endurable, might not rise to some- 
thing grander and more powerful.? The old 
prejudices, the old foregone conclusion of earth 
that this was a world of punishment, had warped 
my vision and my thoughts. With so many 
added faculties of being, incapable of fatigue as 
we were, incapable of death, recovering from 
every wound or accident as I had myself done, 
and with no foolish restraint as to what we 
should or should not do, why might not we rise 
in this land to strength unexampled, to the high- 
est powers? I rejoiced that I had dropped my 
companion’s hand, that I had not followed him 
in his mad quest. Sometime, I said to myself,^ 
I would make a pilgrimage to the foot of those 
gloomy mountains, and bring him back, all 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 75 

racked and tortured as he was, and show him 
the pleasant place which he had missed. 

In the mean time the music and the dance 
went on. But it began to surprise me a little 
that there was no pause, that the festival con- 
tinued without intermission. I went up to one 
of those who seemed the masters of ceremony, 
directing what was going on. He was an old 
man, with a flowing robe of brocade, and a chain 
and badge which denoted his office. He stood 
with a smile upon his lips, beating time with his 
hand to the music, watching the figure of the 
dance. 

‘ I can get no one to tell me,’ I said, ‘ what 
the occasion of all this rejoicing is.’ 

* It is for your coming,’ he replied without 
hesitation, with a smile and a bow. 

For the moment a wonderful elation came 
over me. ‘ For my coming ! ’ But then I 
paused and shook my head. * There are others 
coming besides me. See ! they arrive every 
moment.’ 

^ It is for their coming too,’ he said with an- 
other smile and a still deeper bow } * but you are 
the first as you are the chief.’ 

This was what I could not understand ; but it 
was pleasant to hear, and I made no further 


176 


THE LHTLE PILGRIM. 


objection. * And how long will it go on ? ’ 1 
said. 

‘So long as it pleases you,’ said the old 
courtier. 

How he smiled ! His smile did not please 
me. He saw this, and distracted my attention. 
‘ Look at this dance,’ he said ; ^ how beautiful 
are those round young limbs ! Look how the 
dress conceals yet shows the form and beautiful 
movements ! It was invented in your honor. 
All that is lovely is for you. Choose where you 
will, all is yours. We live only for this ; all is 
for you.’ While he spoke, the dancers came 
nearer and nearer till they circled us round, and 
danced and made their pretty obeisances, and 
sang, ^ All is yours ; all is for you ; ’ then break- 
ing their lines, floated away in other circles and 
processions and endless groups, singing and 
laughing till it seemed to ring from every side, 
‘ Eveiything is yours ; all is for you.’ 

I accepted this flattery I know not why, for I 
soon became aware that I was no more than 
others, and that the same words were said to 
every new-comer. Yet my heart was elated, and 
I threw myself into all that was set before me. 
But there was always in my mind an expectation 
that presently the music and the dancing would 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


177 


cease, and the tables be withdrawn, and a pause 
come. At one of the feasts I was placed by the 
side of a lady very fair and richly dressed, but 
with a look of great weariness in her eyes. She 
turned her beautiful face to me, not with any 
show of pleasure, and there was something like 
compassion in her look. She said, ‘ You are 
very tired,’ as she made room for me by her 
side. 

‘Yes,’ I said, though with surprise, for I had 
not yet acknowledged that even to myself. 
‘There is so much to enjoy. We have need 
of a little rest.’ 

‘ Of rest ! ’ said she, shaking her head, ‘ this is 
not the place for rest.’ 

‘ Yet pleasure requires it,’ I said, ‘ as much 
as — ’ I was about to say pain ; but why 
should one speak of pain in a place given up 
to pleasure ? She smiled faintly and shook her 
head again. All her movements were languid 
and faint; her eyelids drooped over her eyes. 
Yet when I turned to her, she made an effort 
to smile. ‘ I think you are also tired,’ I said. 

At this she roused herself a little. ‘ We must 
not say so ; nor do I say so. Pleasure is very 
exacting. It demands more of you than any- 
thing else. One must be always ready — ’ 

12 


178 


THE LI'ITLE PILGRIM. 


^ For what? ’ 

* To give enjoyment and to receive it.’ There 
was an effort in her voice to rise to this senti- 
ment, but it fell back into weariness again. 

‘ I hope you receive as well as give,’ I said. 

The lady turned her eyes to me with a look 
which I cannot forget, and life seemed once 
more to be roused within her, but not the 
life of pleasure ; her eyes were full of loathing 
and fatigue and disgust and despair. ‘ Are you 
so new to this place,’ she said, ‘and have not 
learned even yet what is the height of all misery 
and all weariness ; what is worse than pain 
and trouble, more dreadful than the lawless 
streets and the burning mines, and the torture 
of the great hall and the misery of the lazar- 
house — ’ 

‘ Oh, lady,’ I said, ‘ have you been there ? ’ 

She answered me with her eyes alone ; there 
was no need of more. ‘ But pleasure is more 
terrible than all,’ she said ; and I knew in my 
heart that what she said was true. 

There is no record of time in that place. I 
could not count it by days or nights ; but soon 
after this it happened to me that the dances and 
the music became no more than a dizzy maze 
of sound and sight which made my brain whirl 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 


179 


round and round ; and I too loathed what was 
spread on the table, and the soft couches, and 
the garlands, and the fluttering flags and orna- 
ments. To sit forever at a feast, to see forever 
the merrymakers turn round and round, to hear 
in your ears forever the whirl of the music, the 
laughter, the cries of pleasure ! There were some 
who went on and on, and never seemed to tire ; 
but to me the endless round came at last to be a 
torture from which I could not escape. Finally, I 
could distinguish nothing, — neither what I heard 
nor what I saw ; and only a consciousness of some- 
thing intolerable buzzed and echoed in my brain. 
I longed for the quiet of the place I had left ; I 
longed for the noise in the streets, and the 
hubbub and tumult of my first experiences. 
Anything, anything rather than this ! I said to 
myself ; and still the dancers turned, the music 
sounded, the bystanders smiled, and everything 
went on and on. My. eyes grew weary with 
seeing, and my ears with hearing. To watch 
the new-comers rush in, all pleased and eager, 
to see the eyes of the others glaze with weari- 
ness, wrought upon my strained nerves. I could 
not think, I could not rest, I could not endure. 
Music forever and ever, — a whirl, a rush of 
music, always going on and on ; and ever that 


i8o 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


maze of movement, till the eyes were feverish 
and the mouth -parched ; ever that mist of faces, 
now one gleaming out of the chaos, now another, 
some like the faces of angels, some miserable, 
weary, strained with smiling, with the monotony, 
and the endless, aimless, never-changing round. 
I heard myself calling to them to be still — to 
be still ! to pause a moment. I felt myself 
stumble and turn round in the giddiness and 
horror of that movement without repose. And 
finally, I fell under the feet of the crowd, and 
felt the whirl go over and over me, and beat upon 
my brain, until I was pushed and thrust out of 
the way lest I should stop the measure. There 
I lay, sick, satiate, for I know not how long, — 
loathing everything around me, ready to give 
all I had (but what had I to give?) for one 
moment of silence. But always the music went 
on, and the dancers danced, and the people 
feasted, and the songs and the voices echoed 
up to the skies. 

How at last I stumbled forth I cannot tell. 
Desperation must have moved me, and that 
impatience which after every hope and disap- 
pointment comes back and back, — the one sen- 
sation that never fails. I dragged myself at 
last by intervals, like a sick dog, outside the 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. l8l 

revels, still hearing them, which was torture to 
me, even when at last I got beyond the crowd. 
It was something to lie still upon the ground, 
though without power to move, and sick beyond 
all thought, loathing myself and all that I had 
been and seen. For I had not even the sense 
that I had been wronged to keep me up, but 
only a nausea and horror of movement, a giddi- 
ness and whirl of every sense. I lay like a log 
upon the ground. 

When I recovered my faculties a little, it was 
to find myself once more in the great vacant 
plain which surrounded that accursed home of 
pleasure, — a great and desolate waste upon 
which I could see no track, which my heart 
fainted to look at, which no longer roused any 
hope in me, as if it might lead to another be- 
ginning, or any place in which yet at the last it 
might be possible to live. As I lay in that horri- 
ble giddiness and faintness, I loathed life and 
this continuance which brought me through one 
misery after another, and forbade me to die. 
Oh that death w.ould come, — death, which is 
silent and still, which makes no movement and 
hears no sound ! that I might end and be no 
more ! Oh that I could go back even to the 
stillness of that chamber which I had not been 


i 82 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


able to endure ! Oh that I could return, — re- 
turn ! to what? To other miseries and other pain, 
which looked less because they were past. But 
I knew now that return was impossible until I 
had circled all the dreadful round ; and already 
I felt again the burning of that desire that 
pricked and drove me on, — not back, for that 
was impossible. Little by little I had learned 
to understand, each step printed upon my brain 
as with red-hot irons : not back, but on, and on 
— to greater anguish, yes ; but on, to fuller de- 
spair, to experiences more terrible, — but on, and 
on, and on. I arose again, for this was my fate. 
I could not pause even for all the teachings of 
despair. 

The waste stretched far as eyes could see. It 
was wild and terrible, with neither vegetation nor 
sign of life. Here and there were heaps of 
ruin, which had been villages and cities ; but 
nothing was in them save reptiles and crawling 
poisonous life and traps for the unwary wan- 
derer. How often I stumbled and fell among 
these ashes and dust-heaps of the past ! Through 
what dread moments I lay, with cold and slimy 
things leaving their trace upon my flesh ! The 
horrors which seized me, so that I beat my head 
against a stone, — why should I tell ? These 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 83 

were nought ; they touched not the soul. They 
were but accidents of the way. 

At length, when body and soul were low and 
worn out with misery and weariness, I came to 
another place, where all was so different from the 
last that the sight gave me a momentary solace. 
It was full of furnaces and clanking machinery 
and endless work. The whole air round was 
aglow with the fury of the fires ; and men went 
and came like demons in the flames, with red-hot 
melting metal, pouring it into moulds and beating 
it on anvils. In the huge workshops in the back- 
ground there was a perpetual whir of machinery, 
of wheels turning and turning, and pistons beat- 
ing, and all the din of labor, which for a time 
renewed the anguish of my brain, yet also 
soothed it, — for there was meaning in the beat- 
ings and the whirlings. And a hope rose within 
me that with all the forces that were here, some 
revolution might be possible, — something that 
would change the features of this place and 
overturn the worlds. I went from workshop to 
workshop, and examined all that was being done, 
and understood, — for I had known a little upon 
the earth, and my old knowledge came back, 
and to learn so much more filled me with new 
life. The master of all was one who never 


1 84 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


rested, nor seemed to feel weariness nor pain 
nor pleasure. He had everything in his hand. 
All who were there were his workmen or his 
assistants or his servants. No one shared with 
him in his councils. He was more than a prince 
among them ; he was as a god. And the things 
he planned and made, and at which in armies 
and legions his workmen toiled and labored, were 
like living things. They were made of steel and 
iron, but they moved like the brains and nerves 
of men. They went where he directed them, 
and did what he commanded, and moved at 
a touch. And though he talked little, when he 
saw how I followed all that he did, he was a little 
moved towards me, and spoke and explained to 
me the conceptions that were in his mind, one 
rising out of another, like the leaf out of the 
stem and the flower out of the bud. For noth- 
ing pleased him that he did, and necessity was 
upon him to go on and on. 

* They are like living things,’ I said ; ‘ they do 
your bidding, whatever you command them. 
They are like another and a stronger race of 
men.’ 

* Men ! ’ he said, ‘ what are men ? The most 
contemptible of all things that are made, — crea- 
tures who will undo in a moment what it has 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 85 

taken millions of years, and all the skill and all 
the strength of generations to do. These are 
better than men. They cannot think or feel. 
They cannot stop but at my bidding, or begin 
unless I will. Had men been made so, we 
should be masters of the world.’ 

‘Had men been made so, you would never 
have been, — for what could genius have done 
or thought ? — you would have been a machine 
like all the rest.’ 

‘ And better so ! ’ he said, and turned away ; 
for at that moment, watching keenly as he spoke 
the action of a delicate combination of move- 
ments, all made and balanced to a hair’s breadth, 
there had come to him suddenly the idea of 
something which made it a hundredfold more 
strong and terrible. For they were terrible, 
these things that lived yet did not live, which 
were his slaves and moved at his will. When he 
had done this, he looked at me, and a smile 
came upon his mouth ; but his eyes smiled not, 
nor ever changed from the set look they wore. 
And the words he spoke were familiar words, 
not his, but out of the old life. ‘What a piece 
of work is a man ! ’ he said ; ‘ how noble in 
reason, how infinite in faculty ! in form and 
moving how express and admirable ! And yet 


i86 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


to me what is this quintessence of dust ? ’ His 
mind had followed another strain of thought, 
which to me was bewildering, so that I did not 
know how to reply. I answered like a child, 
upon his last word. 

‘We are dust no more,’ I cried, for pride 
was in my heart, — pride of him and his wonder- 
ful strength, and his thoughts which created 
strength, and all the marvels he did ; ‘ those 
things which hindered are removed. Go on ; go 
on ! you want but another step. What is to 
prevent that you should not shake the universe, 
and overturn this doom, and break all our bonds ? 
There is enough here to explode this gray fiction 
of a firmament, and to rend those precipices, 
and to dissolve that waste, — as at the time when 
the primeval seas dried up, and those infernal 
mountains rose.’ 

He laughed, and the echoes caught the sound 
and gave it back as if they mocked it. ‘ There is 
enough to rend us all into shreds,’ he said, ‘ and 
shake, as you say, both heaven and earth, and 
these plains and those hills.’ 

‘ Then why,’ I cried in my haste, with a dread- 
ful hope piercing through my soul — ‘why do 
you create and perfect, but never employ ? When 
we had armies on the earth, we used them. You 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 187 

have more than armies ; you have force beyond 
the thoughts of*man, but all without use as yet.’ 

‘ All,’ he cried, ‘ for no use ! All in vain ! — 
in vain ! ’ 

^ O master ! ’ I said, ‘ great and more great 
in time to come, why ? — why ? ’ 

He took me by the arm and drew me close. 

^ Have you strength,’ he said, ‘ to bear it if I 
tell you why ? ’ 

I knew what he was about to say. I felt it in 
the quivering of my veins, and my heart that 
bounded as if it would escape from my breast ; 
but I would not quail from what he did not 
shrink to utter. I could speak no word, but I 
looked him in the face and waited — for that 
which was more terrible than all. 

He held me by the arm, as if he would hold 
me up when the shock of anguish came. ‘ They 
are in vain,’ he said, ‘ in vain — because God 
rules over all.’ 

His arm was strong ; but I fell at his feet like 
a dead man. 

How miserable is that image, and how unfit 
to use ! Death is still and cool and sweet. 
There is nothing in it that pierces like a sword, 
that burns like fire, that rends and tears like the 
turning wheels. O life, O pain, O terrible name 


i88 


THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 


of God in which is all succor and all torment ! 
What are pangs and tortures to tTiat, which ever 
increases in its awful power, and has no limit 
nor any alleviation, but whenever it is spoken 
penetrates through and through the miserable 
soul ? O God, whom once I called my Father ! 
O Thou who gavest me being, against whom I 
have fought, whom I fight to the end, shall there 
never be anything but anguish in the sound of 
Thy great name? 

When I returned to such command of myself 
as one can have who has been transfixed by that 
sword of fire, the master stood by me still. He 
had not fallen like me, but his face was drawn 
with anguish and sorrow like the face of my 
friend who had been with me in the lazar-house, 
who had disappeared on the dark mountains. 
And as I looked at him, terror seized hold upon 
me, and a desire to flee and save myself, that I 
might not be drawn after him by the longing 
that was in his eyes. 

The master gave me his hand to help me to 
rise, and it trembled, but not like mine. 

‘ Sir,’ I cried, * have not we enough to bear ? 
Is it for hatred, is it for vengeance, that you speak 
that name?’ 

‘ O friend,’ he said, * neither for hatred nor 


THE LAND OF DARKNESS. 1 89 

revenge. It is like a fire in my veins ; if one 
could find Him again ! ’ 

^ You, who are as a god, who can make and 
destroy, — you, who could shake His throne ! ’ 
He put up his hand. ‘ I who am His creature, 
even here — and still His child, though I am so 
far, so far — ’ He caughj; my hand in his, and 
pointed with the other trembling. ^ Look ! your 
eyes are more clear than mine, for they are not 
anxious like mine. Can you see anything upon 
the way ? ’ 

The waste lay wild before us, dark with a faintly- 
rising cloud, for darkness and cloud and the 
gloom of death attended upon that name. I 
thought, in his great genius and splendor of in- 
tellect, he had gone mad, as sometimes may be. 

‘ There is nothing,’ I said, and scorn came into 
my soul ; but even as I spoke I saw — I cannot 
tell what I saw — a moving spot of milky white- 
ness in that dark and miserable wilderness, no 
bigger than a man’s hand, no bigger than a 
flower. ‘There is something,’ I said unwillingly ; 
‘ it has no shape nor form. It is a gossamer- 
web upon some bush, or a butterfly blown on the 
wind.’ 

‘There are neither butterflies nor gossamers 
here.’ 


1 90 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 

‘ Look for yourself, then ! ’ I cried, flinging his 
hand from me. I was angry with a rage which 
had no cause. I turned from him, though I 
loved him, with a desire to kill him in my heart, 
and hurriedly took the other way. The waste 
was wild ; but rather that than to see the man 
who might have shaken earth and hell thus turn- 
ing, turning to madness and the awful journey. 
For I knew what in his heart he thought ; and I 
knew that it was so. It was something from that 
other sphere ; can I tell you what ? A child per- 
haps — O thought that wrings the heart ! — for 
do you know what manner of thing a child is ? 
There are none in the land of darkness. I turned 
my back upon the place where that whiteness 
was. On, on, across the waste ! On to the cities 
of the night ! On, far away from maddening 
thought, from hope that is torment, and from the 
awful Name ! 

The above narrative, though it is necessary to a full 
understanding of the experiences of the Little Pilgrim in 
the Unseen, does not belong to her personal story in 
any way, but is drawn from the Archives in the Heavenly 
City, where all the records of the human race are laid up. 


OLD LADY MARY. 







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OLD LADY MARY. 


A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN, 


I. 

She was very old, and therefore it was very 
hard for her to make up her mind to die. 

I am aware that this is not at all the general 
view, but that it is believed, as old age must be 
near death, that it prepares the soul for that 
inevitable event. It is not so, however, in many 
cases. In youth we are still so near the unseen 
out of which we came, that death is rather 
pathetic than tragic, — a thing that touches all 
hearts, but to which, in many cases, the young 
hero accommodates himself sweetly and cour- 
ageously. And amid the storms and burdens 
of middle life there are many times when we 
would fain push open the door that stands ajar, 
and behind which there is ease for all our pains, 
or at least rest, if nothing more. But age, which 


6 


OLD LADY MARY. 


has gone through both these phases, is apt, out 
of long custom and habit, to regard the matter 
from a different view. All things that are violent 
have passed out of its life, — no more strong 
emotions, such as rend the heart ; no great 
labors, bringing after them the weariness which 
is unto death; but the calm of an existence 
which is enough for its needs, which affords 
the moderate amount of comfort and pleasure 
for which its being is now adapted, and of which 
there seems no reason that there should ever be 
any end. To passion, to joy, to anguish, an end 
must come ; but mere gentle living, determined 
by a framework of gentle rules and habits — 
why should that ever be ended? When a soul 
has got to this retirement and is content in it, 
it becomes very hard to die ; hard to accept the 
necessity of dying, and to accustom one’s self to 
the idea, and still harder to consent to carry it 
out. 

The woman who is the subject of the follow- 
ing narrative was in this position. She had lived 
through almost everything that is to be found in 
life. She had been beautiful in her youth, and 
had enjoyed all the triumphs of beauty; had 
been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant in 
conquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitter- 


OLD LADY MARY. 


7 


ness of defeat when it became evident that her 
day was over.. She had never been a bad woman, 
or false, or unkind ; but she had thrown herself 
with all her heart into those different stages of 
being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed, 
according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a 
day during these storms and victories, when things 
went against her, when delights did not satisfy her, 
she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the 
universe and wished to die. And then she had 
come to the higher table -land of life, and had 
borne all the spites of fortune, — had been poor 
and rich, and happy and sorrowful ; had lost and 
won a hundred times over ; had sat at feasts, and 
kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best- 
beloved to the grave, often, often crying out to 
God above to liberate her, to make an end of her 
anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and 
she could bear no more. But she had borne it 
and lived through all ; and now had arrived at 
a time when all strong sensations are over, when 
the soul is no longer either triumphant or miser- 
able, and when life itself, and comfort and ease, 
and the wannth of the sun, and of the fireside, 
and the mild beauty of home were enough for 
her, and she required no more. That is, she re- 
quired very little more, — a useful routine of 


OLD LADY MARY. 


hours and rules, a play of reflected emotion, a 
pleasant exercise of faculty, making her feel her- 
self still capable of the best things in life — of in- 
terest in her fellow-creatures, kindness to them, 
and a little gentle intellectual occupation, with 
books and men around. She had not forgotten 
anything in her life, — not the excitements and 
delights of her beauty, nor love, nor grief, nor 
the higher levels she had touched in her day. 
She did not forget the dark day when her first- 
born was laid in the grave, nor that triumphant 
and brilliant climax of her life when every one 
pointed to her as the mother of a hero. All 
these things were like pictures hung in the secret 
chambers of her mind, to which she could go 
back in silent moments, in the twilight seated by 
the fire, or in the balmy afternoon, when languor 
and sweet thoughts are over the world. Some- 
times at such moments there would be heard 
from her a faint sob, called forth, it was quite as 
likely, by the recollection of the triumph as by 
that of the deathbed. With these pictures to go 
back upon at her will she was never dull, but saw 
herself moving through the various scenes of her 
life with a continual sympathy, feeling for herself 
in all her troubles, — sometimes approving, some- 
times judging that woman who had been so 


OLD LADY MARY. 


9 


pretty, so happy, so miserable, and had gone 
through everything that life can go through. 
How much that is, looking back upon it ! — pas- 
sages so hard that the wonder was how she could 
survive them ; pangs so terrible that the heart 
would seem at its last gasp, but yet would revive 
and go on. 

Besides these, however, she had many mild 
pleasures. She had a pretty house full of things 
which formed a graceful entourage suitable, as 
she felt, for such a woman as she was, and in 
which she took pleasure for their own beauty, — 
soft chairs and couches, a fireplace and lights 
which were the perfection of tempered warmth 
and illumination. She had a carriage, very com- 
fortable and easy, in which, when the weather 
was suitable, she went out ; and a pretty garden 
and lawns, in which, when she preferred staying 
at home, she could have her little walk, or sit out 
under the trees. She had books in plenty, and 
all the newspapers, and everything that was need- 
ful to keep her within the reflection of the busy 
life which she no longer cared to encounter in 
her own person. The post rarely brought her 
painful letters; for all those impassioned inter- 
ests which bring pain had died out, and the 
sorrows of others, when they were communicated 


lO 


OLD LADY MARY. 


to her, gave her a luxurious sense of sympathy, 
yet exemption. She was sorry for them; but 
such catastrophes could touch her no more : and 
often she had pleasant letters, which afforded 
her something to talk and think about, and dis- 
cuss as if it concerned her, — and yet did not 
concern her, — business which could not hurt 
her if it failed, which would please her if it suc- 
ceeded. Her letters, her papers, her books, 
each coming at its appointed hour, were all in- 
struments of pleasure. She came down-stairs at 
a certain hour, which she kept to as if it had 
been of the utmost importance, although it was 
of no importance at all : she took just so much 
good wine, so many cups of tea. Her repasts 
were as regular as clockwork — never too late, 
never too early. Her whole life went on velvet, 
rolling smoothly along, without jar or interrup- 
tion, blameless, pleasant, kind. People talked 
of her old age as a model of old age, with no 
bitterness or sourness in it And, indeed, why 
should she have been sour or bitter? It suited 
her far better to be kind. She was in reality 
kind to everybody, liking to see pleasant faces 
about her. The poor had no reason to complain 
of her ; her servants were very comfortable ; and 
the one person in her house who was nearer to 


OLD LADY MARY. 


II 


her own level, who was her companion and most 
important minister, was very comfortable too. 

This was a young woman about twenty, a very 
distant relation, with “ no claim,” everybody 
said, upon her kind mistress and friend, — the 
daughter of a distant cousin. How very few 
think anything at all of such a tie ! but Lady 
Mary had taken her young namesake when she 
was a child, and she had grown up as it were 
at her godmother’s footstool, in the conviction 
that the measured existence of the old was the 
rule of life, and that her own trifling personality 
counted for nothing, or next to nothing, in its 
steady progress. Her name was Mary too — 
always called “ little Mary ” as having once been 
little, and not yet very much in the matter of 
size. She was one of the pleasantest things to 
look at of all the pretty things in Lady Mary’s 
rooms, and she had the most sheltered, peaceful, 
and pleasant life that could be conceived. The 
only little thorn in her pillow was, that whereas 
in the novels, of which she read a great many, 
the heroines all go and pay visits and have ad- 
ventures, she had none, but lived constantly at 
home. There was something much more serious 
in her life, had she known, which was that she 
had nothing, and no power of doing anything 


12 


OLD LADY MARY. 


for herself ; that she had all her life been accus- 
tomed to a modest luxury which would make 
poverty very hard to her ; and that Lady Mary 
was over eighty, and had made no will. If she 
did not make any will, her property would all go 
to her grandson, who was so rich already that her 
fortune would be but as a drop in the ocean to 
him; or to some great-grandchildren of whom 
she knew very little, — the descendants of a 
daughter long ago dead who had married an 
Austrian, and who were therefore foreigners 
both in birth and name. That she should pro- 
vide for little Mary was therefore a thing which 
nature demanded, and which would hurt no- 
body. She had said so often ; but she deferred 
the doing of it as a thing for which there was 
*‘no hurry.” For why should she die? There 
seemed no reason or need for it. So long as she 
lived, nothing could be more sure, more happy 
and serene, than little Mary’s life ; and why 
should she die? She did not perhaps put this 
into words ; but the meaning of her smile, and 
the manner in which she put aside every sugges- 
tion about the chances of the hereafter away 
from her, said it more clearly than words. It 
was not that she had any superstitious fear about 
the making of a will. When the doctor or the 


OLD LADY MARY. 


13 


vicar or her man of business, the only persons 
who ever talked to her on the subject, ventured 
periodically to refer to it, she assented pleas- 
antly, — yes, certainly, she must do it — some 
time or other. 

It is a very simple thing to do,” the lawyer 
said. ‘‘ I will save you all trouble ; nothing but 
your signature will be wanted — and that you 
give every day.” 

Oh, I should think nothing of the trouble ! ” 
she said. 

“And it would liberate your mind from all 
care, and leave you free to think of things more 
important still,” said the clergyman. 

“ I think I am very free of care,” she re- 
plied. 

Then the doctor added bluntly, “ And you will 
not die an hour the sooner for having made your 
will.” 

Die ! ” said Lady Mary, surprised. And 
then she added, with a smile, “ I hope you don’t 
think so little of me as to believe I would be 
kept back by that?” 

These gentlemen all consulted together in de- 
spair, and asked each other what should be done. 
They thought her an egotist — a cold-hearted old 
woman, holding at arm’s length any idea of the 


14 


OLD LADY MARY. 


inevitable. And so she did ; but not because 
she was cold-hearted, — because she was so ac- 
customed to living, and had survived so many 
calamities, and gone on so long — so long ; and 
because everything was so comfortably arranged 
about her — all her little habits so firmly estab- 
lished, as if nothing could interfere with them. 
To think of the day arriving which should begin 
with some other formula than that of her maid’s 
entrance drawing aside the curtains, lighting the 
cheerful fire, bringing her a report of the weather ; 
and then the little tray, resplendent with snowy 
linen and shining silver and china, with its bou- 
quet of violets or a rose in the season, the news- 
paper carefully dried and cut, the letters^ — every 
detail was so perfect, so unchanging, regular as 
the morning. It seemed impossible that it should 
come to an end. And then when she came down- 
stairs, there were all the little articles upon her 
table always ready to her hand ; a certain num- 
ber of things to do, each at the appointed hour ; 
the slender refreshments it was necessary for her 
to take, in which there was a little exquisite vari- 
ety — but never any change in the fact that at 
eleven and at three and so forth something had 
to be taken. Had a woman wanted to abandon 
the peaceful life which was thus supported and 


OLD LADY MARY. 


15 


carried on, the very framework itself would have 
resisted. It was impossible (almost) to con- 
template the idea that at a given moment the 
whole machinery must stop. She was neither 
without heart nor without religion, but on the 
contrary a good woman, to whom many gentle 
thoughts had been given at various portions of 
her career. But the occasion seemed to have 
passed for tliat as well as other kinds of emotion. 
The mere fact of living was enough for her. 
The little exertion which it was well she was re- 
quired to make produced a pleasant weariness. 
It was a duty much enforced upon her by all 
around her, that she should do nothing which 
would exhaust or fatigue. I don’t want you to 
think,” even the doctor would say ; you have 
done enough of thinking in your time.” And 
this she accepted with great composure of spirit. 
She had thought and felt and done much in her 
day ; but now everything of the kind was over. 
There was no need for her to fatigue herself; 
and day followed day, all warm and sheltered 
and pleasant. People died, it is true, now and 
then, out of doors ; but they were mostly young 
people, whose death might have been prevented 
had proper care been taken, — who were seized 
with violent maladies, or caught sudden infec- 


i6 


OLD LADY MARY. 


tions, or were cut down by accident ; all which 
things seemed natural. Her own contemporaries 
were very few, and they were like herself — liv- 
ing on in something of the same way. At eighty- 
five all people under seventy are young; and 
one’s contemporaries are very, very few. 

Nevertheless these men did disturb her a little 
about her will. She had made more than one 
will in the former days during her active life ; 
but all those to whom she had bequeathed her 
possessions were dead. She had survived them 
all, and inherited from many of them ; which had 
been a hard thing in its time. One day the 
lawyer had been more than ordinarily pressing. 
He had told her stories of men who .had died 
intestate, and left trouble and penury behind 
them to those whom they would have most 
wished to preserve from all trouble. It would 
not have become Mr. Furnival to say brutally to 
Lady Mary, This is how you will leave your 
godchild when you die.” But he told her story 
after story, many of them piteous enough. 

People think it is so troublesome a business,” 
he said, “when it is nothing at all — the most 
easy matter in the world. We are getting so 
much less particular nowadays about formalities. 
So long as the testator’s intentions are made quite 


OLD LADY MARY. 


17 


apparent — that is the chief matter, and a very 
bad thing for us lawyers.” 

“ I dare say,” said Lady Mary, it is unpleas- 
ant for a man to think of himself as ‘ the testator.’ 
It is a very abstract title, when you come to 
think of it.” 

Pooh ! ” said Mr. Fumival, who had no 
sense of humor. 

“ But if this great business is so very simple,” 
she went on, “one could do it, no doubt, for 
one’s self?” 

“ Many people do, but it is never advisable,” 
said the lawyer. “ You will say it is natural for 
me to tell you that. When they do, it should be 
as simple as possible. I give all my real proper- 
ty, or my personal property, or my share in so- 
and-so, or my jewels, or so forth, to — whoever it 
may be. The fewer words the better, — so that 
nobody may be able to read between the lines, 
you know, — and the signature attested by two 
witnesses ; but they must not be witnesses that 
have any interest; that is, that have anything 
left to them by the document they witness.” 

Lady Mary put up her hand defensively, with 
a laugh. It was still a most delicate hand, like 
ivory, a little yellowed with age, but fine, the 
veins standing out a httle upon it, the finger-tips 


i8 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Still pink. “ You speak,” she said, as if you 
expected me to take the law in my own hands. 
No, no, my old friend ; never fear, you shall have 
the doing of it.” 

“ Whenever you please, my dear lady — when- 
ever you please. Such a thing cannot be done 
an hour too soon. Shall I take your instructions 
now?” 

Lady Mary laughed, and said, You were al- 
ways a very keen man for business., I remem- 
ber your father used to say, Robert would never 
neglect an opening.” 

‘‘ No,” he said, with a peculiar look. “ I have 
always looked after my six-and-eightpences ; and 
in that case it is true, the pounds take care of 
themselves.” 

Very good care,” said Lady Mary; and then 
she bade her young companion bring that book 
she had been reading, where there was something 
she wanted to show Mr. Furnival. It is only 
a case in a novel, but I am sure it is bad law ; 
give me your opinion,” she said. 

He was obliged to be civil, very civil. Nobody 
is rude to the Lady Marys of life ; and besides, 
she was old enough to have an additional right 
to every courtesy. But while he sat over the 
novel, and tried with unnecessary vehemence to 


OLD LADY MARY. 


19 


make her see what very bad law it was, and 
glanced from her smiling attention to the inno- 
cent sweetness of the girl beside her, who was 
her loving attendant, the good man’s heart was 
sore. He said many hard things of her in his 
own mind as he went away. 

“She will die,” he said bitterly. “She will 
go off in a moment when nobody is looking for 
it, and that poor child will be left destitute.” 

It was all he could do not to go back and take 
her by her fragile old shoulders and force her 
to sign and seal at once. But then he knew 
very well that as soon as he found himself in her 
presence, he would of necessity be obliged to 
subdue his impatience, and be once more civil, 
very civil, and try to suggest and insinuate the 
duty which he dared not force upon her. And it 
was very clear that till she pleased she would take 
no hint. He supposed it must be that strange re- 
luctance to part with their power which is said 
to be common to old people, or else that horror 
of death, and determination to keep it at arm’s 
length, which is also common. Thus he did as 
spectators are so apt to do, he forced a meaning 
and motive into what had no motive at all, and 
imagined Lady Mary, the kindest of women, to 
be of purpose and intention risking the future of 


20 


OLD LADY MARY. 


the girl whom she had brought up, and whom 
she loved, — not with passion, indeed, or anxiety, 
but with tender benevolence; a theory which 
was as false as anything could be. 

That evening in her room. Lady Mary, in a 
very cheerful mood, sat by a little bright unnec- 
essary fire, with her writing-book before her, 
waiting till she should be sleepy. It was the 
only point in which she was a little hard upon 
her maid, who in every other respect was the 
best-treated of servants. Lady Mary, as it hap- 
pened, had often no inclination for bed till the 
night was far advanced. She slept little, as is 
common enough at her age. She was in her 
warm wadded dressing-gown, an article in which 
she still showed certain traces (which were in- 
deed visible in all she wore) of her ancient 
beauty, with her white hair becomingly arranged 
under a cap of cambric and lace. At the last mo- 
ment, when she had been ready to step into bed, 
she had changed her mind, and told Jervis that 
she would write a letter or two first. And she 
had written her letters, but still felt no inclination 
to sleep. Then there fluttered across her memory 
somehow the conversation she had held with Mr. 
Furnival in the morning. It would be amusing, 
she thought, to cheat him out of some of those 


OLD LADY MARY. 


21 


six-and-eightpences he pretended to think so 
much of. It would be still more amusing, next 
time the subject of her wiH was recurred to, to give 
his arm a little tap with her fan, and say, “ Oh, 
that is all settled, months ago.” She laughed 
to herself at this, and took out a fresh sheet of 
paper. It was a little jest that pleased her. 

‘‘ Do you think there is any one up yet, Jervis, 
except you and me?” she said to the maid. 
Jervis hesitated a little, and then said that she 
believed Mr. Brown had not gone to bed yet; 
for he had been going over the cellar, and was 
making up his accounts. Jervis was so explana- 
tory that her mistress divined what was meant. 
“ I suppose I have been spoiling sport, keeping 
you here,” she said good-humoredly ; for it was 
well known that Miss Jervis and Mr. Brown were 
engaged, and that they were only waiting (every- 
body knew but Lady Mary, who never suspected 
it) the death of their mistress, to set up a 
lodging-house in Jermyn Street, where they fully 
intended to make their fortune. “ Then go,” 
Lady Mary said, “and call Brown. I have a 
little business paper to write, and you must both 
witness my signature.” She laughed to herself 
a little as she said this, thinking how she would 
steal a march on Mr. Furnival. “I give, and 


22 


OLD LADY MARY. 


bequeath/’ she said to herself playfully, aftei 
Jervis had hurried away. She fully intended to 
leave, both of these good servants something, 
but then she recollected that people who are 
interested in a will cannot sign as witnesses. 
“What does it matter?” she said to herself 
gayly ; “ If it ever should be wanted, Mary 
would see to that.” Accordingly she dashed off, 
in her pretty, old-fashioned handwriting, which 
was very angular and pointed, as was the fashion 
in her day, and still very clear, though slightly 
tremulous, a few lines, in which, remembering 
playfully Mr. Furnival’s recommendation of “ few 
words,” she left to little Mary all she possessed, 
adding, by the prompting of that recollection 
about the witnesses, “ She will take care of the 
servants.” It filled one side only of the large 
sheet of notepaper, which was what Lady Mary 
habitually used. Brown, introduced timidly by 
Jervis, and a little overawed by the solemnity of 
the bedchamber, came in and painted solidly his 
large signature after the spidery lines of his mis- 
tress. She had folded down the paper, so that 
neither saw what it was. 

“ Now I will go to bed,” Lady Mary said, 
when Brown had left the room. “And Jervis, 
you must go to bed too.” 


OLD LADY MARY. 


23 


Yes, my lady,” said Jervis. 

“ I don’t approve of courtship at this hour.” 

‘‘No, my lady,” Jervis replied, deprecating 
and disappointed. 

“Why cannot he tell his tale in daylight? ” 

“ Oh, my lady, there ’s no tale to tell,” cried 
the maid. “ We are not of the gossiping sort, 
my lady, neither me nor Mr. Brown.” Lady 
Mary laughed, and watched while the candles 
were put out ; the fire made a pleasant flicker 
in the room, — it was autumn and still warm, 
and it was “ for company ” and cheerfulness 
that the little fire was lit; she liked to see it 
dancing and flickering upon the walls, — and 
then closed her eyes amid an exquisite softness 
of comfort and luxury, life itself bearing her up 
as softly, filling up all the crevices as warmly, as 
the downy pillow upon which she rested her 
still beautiful old head. 

If she had died that night ! The little sheet 
of paper that meant so much lay openly, inno- 
cently, in her writing-book, along with the letters 
she had written, and looking of as little impor- 
tance as they. There was nobody in the world 
who grudged old Lady Mary one of those pretty 
placid days of hers. Brown and Jervis, if they 
were sometimes a little impatient, consoled each 


24 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Other that they were both sure of something in 
her will, and that in the mean time it was a very 
good place. And all the rest would have been 
very well content that Lady Mary should live for- 
ever. But how wonderfully it would have sim- 
plified everything, and how much trouble and 
pain it would have saved to everybody, herself 
included, could she have died that night ! 

But naturally, there was no question of dying 
on that night. When she was about to go down- 
stairs, next day, Lady Mary, giving her letters to 
be posted, saw the paper she had forgotten lying 
beside them. She had forgotten all about it, 
but the sight of it made her smile. She folded 
it up and put it in an envelope while -Jervis went 
down-stairs with the letters ; and then, to carry 
out her joke, she looked round her to see where 
she would put it. There was an old Italian cab- 
inet in the room, with a secret drawer, which it 
was a little difficult to open, — almost impossible 
for any one who did not know the secret. Lady 
Mary looked round her, smiled, hesitated a little, 
and then walked across the room and put the 
envelope in the secret drawer. She was still 
fumbling with it when Jervis came back ; but 
there was no connection in Jervis’s mind, then 
or ever after, between the paper she had signed 


OLD LADY MARY. 


25 


and this old cabinet, which was one of the old 
lady’s toys. She arranged Lady Mary’s shawl, 
which had dropped off her shoulders a little in 
her unusual activity, and took up her book and 
her favorite cushion, and all the little parapher- 
nalia that moved with her, and gave her lady her 
arm to go down-stairs ; where little Mary had 
placed her chair just at the right angle, and 
arranged the little table, on which there were so 
many little necessaries and conveniences, and was 
standing smiling, the prettiest object of all, the 
climax of the gentle luxury and pleasantness, to 
receive her godmother, who had been her prov- 
idence all her life. 

But what a pity ! oh, what a pity, that she had 
not died that night ! 


26 


OLD LADY MARY. 


II. 


Life went on after this without any change. 
There was never any change in that delightful 
house ; and if it was years, or months, or even 
days, the youngest of its inhabitants could scarce- 
ly tell, and Lady Mary could not tell at all. This 
was one of her little imperfections, — a little mist 
which hung, like the lace about her head, over her 
memory. She could not remember how time 
went, or that there was any difference between 
one day and another. There were Sundays, it 
was true, which made a kind of gentle measure 
of the progress of time ; but she said, with a 
smile, that she thought it was always Sunday — 
they came so close upon each other. And time 
flew on gentle wings, that made no sound and 
left no reminders. She had her little ailments 
like anybody, but in reality less than anybody, 
seeing there was nothing to fret her, nothing to 
disturb the even tenor of her days. Still there 
were times when she took a little cold, or got a 
chill, in spite of all precautions, as she went from 
one room to another. She came to be one of 


OLD LADY MARY. 


27 


the marvels of the time, — an old lady who had 
seen everybody worth seeing for generations 
back ; who remembered as distinctly as if they 
had happened yesterday, great events that had 
taken place before the present age began at all, 
before the great statesmen of our time were 
born ; and in full possession of all her faculties, 
as everybody said, her mind as clear as ever, her 
intelligence as active, reading everything, inter- 
ested in everything, and still beautiful, in extreme 
old age. Everybody about her, and in partic- 
ular all the people who helped to keep the thorns 
from her path, and felt themselves to have a hand 
in her preservation, were proud of Lady Mary : 
and she was perhaps a little, a very little, delight- 
fully, charmingly, proud of herself. The doctor, 
beguiled by professional vanity, feeling what a 
feather she was in his cap, quite confident that 
she would reach her hundredth birthday, and 
with an ecstatic hope that even, by grace of his 
admirable treatment and her own beautiful con- 
stitution, she might (almost) solve the problem 
and live forever, gave up troubling about the 
will which at a former period he had taken so 
much interest in. ‘‘What is the use?” he said ; 
“ she will see us all out.” And the vicar, though 
he did not give in to this, was overawed by the 


28 


OLD LADY MARY. 


old lady, who knew everything that could be 
taught her, and to whom it seemed an imperti- 
nence to utter commonplaces about duty, or 
even to suggest subjects of thought. Mr. Furni- 
val was the only man who did not cease his 
representations, and whose anxiety about the 
young Mary, who was so blooming and sweet in 
the shadow of the old, did not decrease. But 
the recollection of the bit of paper in the secret 
drawer of the cabinet, fortified his old client 
against all his attacks. She had intended it only 
as a jest, with which some day or other to con- 
found him, and show how much wiser she was 
than he supposed. It became quite a pleasant 
subject of thought to her, at which she laughed 
to herself. Some day, when she had a suitable 
moment, she would order him to come with all 
his formalities, and then produce her bit of 
paper, and turn the laugh against him. But 
oddly, the very existence of that little document 
kept her indifferent even to the laugh. It was 
too much trouble ; she only smiled at him, and 
took no more notice, amused to think how as- 
tonished he would be, — when, if ever, he found 
it out. 

It happened, however, that one day in the 
early winter the wind changed when Lady Mary 


OLD LADY MARY. 


29 


was out for her drive ; at least they all vowed 
the wind changed. It was in the south, that 
genial quarter, when she set out, but turned 
about in some uncomfortable way, and was a 
keen northeaster when she came back. And in 
the moment of stepping from the carriage, she 
caught a chill. It was the coachman’s, fault, 
Jervis said, who allowed the horses to make a 
step forward when Lady Mary was getting out, 
and kept her exposed, standing on the step of 
the carriage, while he pulled them up ; and it 
was Jervis’s fault, the footman said, who was not 
clever enough to get her lady out, or even to 
throw a shawl round her when she perceived 
how the weather had changed. It is always 
some one’s fault, or some unforeseen, unpre- 
cedented change, that does it at the last. Lady 
Mary was not accustomed to be ill, and did not 
bear it with her usual grace. She was a little 
impatient at first, and thought they were making 
an unnecessary fuss. But then there passed a 
few uncomfortable feverish days, when she began 
to look forward to the doctor’s visit as the only 
thing there was any comfort in. Afterwards she 
passed a night of a very agitating kind. She 
dozed and dreamed, and awoke and dreamed 
again. Her life seemed all to run into dreams, — 


30 


OLD LADY MARY. 


a strange confusion was about her, through which 
she could define nothing. Once waking up, as 
she supposed, she saw a group round her bed, 
the doctor, — with a candle in his hand, (how 
should the doctor be there in the middle of 
the night?) holding her hand or feeling her 
pulse ; little Mary at one side, crying, — wh;^ 
should the child cry? — and Jervis, very anxious^ 
pouring something into a glass. There were 
other faces there which she was sure must have 
come out of a dream, — so unlikely was it that 
they should be collected in her bedchamber, — 
and all with a sort of halo of feverish light about 
them ; a magnified and mysterious importance. 
This strange scene, which she did not nnderstand, 
seemed to make itself visible all in a moment 
out of the darkness, and then disappeared again 
as suddenly as it came. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


31 


III. 

When she woke again, it was morning; and 
her first waking consciousness was, that she must 
be much better. The choking sensation in her 
throat was altogether gone. She had no desire 
to cough — no difficulty in breathing. She had 
a fancy, however, that she must be still dreaming, 
for she felt sure that some one had called her by 
her name, “ Mary.” Now all who could call her 
by her Christian name were dead years ago ; 
therefore it must be a dream. However, in a 
short time it was repeated, — “ Mary, Mary ! get 
up ; there is a great deal to do.” This voice 
confused her greatly. Was it possible that all 
that was past had been mere fancy ; that she 
had but dreamed those long, long years, — 
maturity and motherhood, and trouble and tri- 
umph, and old age at the end of all ? It seemed 
to her possible that she might have dreamed the 
rest, — for she had been a girl much given to 
visions, — but she said to herself that she never 
could have dreamed old age. And then with 
a smile she mused, and thought that it must be 


32 


OLD lADY MAilY. 


the voice that was a dream ; for how could she 
get up without Jervis, who had never appeared 
yet to draw the curtains or make the fire? 
Jervis perhaps had sat up late. She remem- 
bered now to have seen her that time in the 
middle of the night by her bedside ; so that it 
was natural enough, poor thing, that she should 
be late. Get up ! who was it that was calling 
to her so ? She had not been so called to, she 
who had always been a great lady, since she was 
a girl by her mother’s side. Mary, Mary ! ” 
It was a very curious dream. And what was 
more curious still was, that by-and-by she could 
not keep still any longer, but got up without think- 
ing any more of Jervis, and going out of her room 
came all at once into the midst of a company 
of people, all very busy ; whom she was much 
surprised to find, at first, but whom she soon 
accustomed herself to, finding the greatest in- 
terest [n their proceedings, and curious to know 
what they were doing. They, for their part, did 
not seem at all surprised by her appearance, nor 
did any one stop to explain, as would have been 
natural ; but she took this with great composure, 
somewhat astonished, perhaps, being used, wher- 
ever she went, to a great many observances and 
much respect, but soon, very soon, becoming 


OLD LADY MARY. 


33 


used to it. Then some one repeated what she 
had heard before. “ It is time you got up, — 
for there is a great deal to do.” 

‘‘To do,” she said, “for me?” and then she 
looked round upon them with that charming 
smile which had subjugated so many. “ I am 
afraid,” she said, “ you will find me of very 
little use. I am too old now, if ever I could 
have done much, for work.” 

“ Oh no, you are not old, — you will do very 
well,” some one said. 

“ Not old ! ” — Lady Mary felt a little offended 
in spite of herself. “ Perhaps I like flattery as 
well as my neighbors,” she said with dignity, 
“ but then it must be reasonable. To say I am 
anything but a very old woman — ” 

Here she paused a little, perceiving for the 
first time, with surprise, that she was standing and 
walking without her stick or the help of any one’s 
arm, quite freely and at her ease, and that the 
place in which she was had expanded into a 
great place like a gallery in a palace, instead of 
the room next her own into which she had 
walked a few minutes ago ; but this discov- 
ery did not at all affect her mind, or occupy 
her except with the most passing momentary 
surprise. 


3 


34 


OLD LADY MARY. 


^‘The fact is, I feel a great deal better and 
stronger,” she said. 

“ Quite well, Mary, and stronger than ever 
you were before ? ” 

“ Who is it that calls me Mary ? I have had 
nobody for a long time to call me Mary; the 
friends of my youth are all dead. I think that 
you must be right, although the doctor, I feel 
sure, thought me very bad last night. I should 
have got alarmed if I had not fallen asleep 
again.” 

“ And then woke up well? ” 

“ Quite well : it is wonderful, but quite true. 
You seem to know a great deal about me.” 

“ I know everything about you. You have 
had a very pleasant life, and do you think you 
have made the best of it? Your old age has 
been very pleasant.” 

Ah ! you acknowledge that I am old, then? ” 
cried Lady Mary with a smile. 

You are old no longer, and you are a great 
lady no longer. Don’t you see that something 
has happened to you? It is seldom that such 
a great change happens without being found 
out.” 

Yes ; it is true I have got better all at once. 
I feel an extraordinary renewal of strength. I 


OLD LADY MARY. 


35 


seem to have left home without knowing it; 
none of my people seem near me. I feel very 
much as if I had just awakened from a long 
dream. Is it possible,” she said, with a wonde • 
ing look, “ that I have dreamed all my life, an^^ 
after all am just a girl at home? ” The idea wa^ 
ludicrous, and she laughed. “You see I an 
very much improved indeed,” she said. 

She was still so far from perceiving the real 
situation, that some one came towards her out of 
the group of people about — some one whom 
she recognized — with the evident intention of 
explaining to her how it was. She started a little 
at the sight of him, and held out her hand, and 
cried : “You here ! I am very glad to see you 
— doubly glad, since I was told a few days ago 
that you had — died.” 

There was something in this word as she her- 
self pronounced it that troubled her a little. She 
had never been one of those who are afraid of 
death. On the contrary, she had always taken 
a great interest in it, and liked to hear every- 
thing that could be told her on the subject. It 
gave her now, however, a curious little thrill of 
sensation, which she did not understand : she 
hoped it was not superstition. 

“ You have guessed rightly,” he said, “ quite 


30 


OLD LADY MARY. 


right. That is one of the words with a false 
meaning, which is to us a mere symbol of some- 
thing we cannot understand. But you see what 
it means now.” 

It was a great shock, it need not be concealed. 
Otherwise, she had been quite pleasantly occu- 
pied with the interest of something new, into 
which she had walked so easily out of her own 
bedchamber, without any trouble, and with the 
delightful new sensation of health and strength. 
But when it flashed upon her that she was not 
to go back to her bedroom again, nor have any 
of those cares and attentions which had seemed 
necessary to existence, she was very much star- 
tled and shaken. Died? Was it possible that 
she personally had died? She had known it 
was a thing that happened to everybody; but 
yet — And it was a solemn matter, to be pre- 
pared for, and looked forward to, whereas — 
“ If you mean that I too — ” she said, faltering 
a little ; and then she added, “it is very surpris- 
ing,” with a trouble in her mind which yet was 
not all trouble. “ If that is so, it is a thing well 
over. And it is very wonderful how much dis- 
turbance people give themselves about it — if 
this is all.” 

“This is not all, however,” her friend said; 


OLD LADY MARY. 


37 


you have an ordeal before you which you will 
not find pleasant. You are going to think about 
your life, and all that was imperfect in it, and 
which might have been done better.” 

“ We are none of us perfect,” said Lady Mary, 
with a little of that natural resentment with which 
one hears one’s self accused, — however ready 
one may be to accuse one’s self. 

“ Permit me,” said he, and took her hand and 
led her away without further explanation. The 
people about were so busy with their own occu- 
pations that they took very little notice ; neither 
did she pay much attention to the manner in 
which they were engaged. Their looks were 
friendly when they met her eye, and she too 
felt friendly, with a sense of brotherhood. But 
she had always been a kind woman. She 
wanted to step aside and help, on more than 
one occasion, when it seemed to her that some 
people in her way had a task above their powers ; 
but this her conductor would not permit. And 
she endeavored to put some questions to him as 
they went along, with still less success. 

The change is very confusing,” she said ; 
^^one has no standard to judge by. I should 
like to know something about — the kind of 
people — and the — manner of life.” 


38 


OLD LADY MARY. 


For a time,” he said, you will have enough 
to do, without troubling yourself about that.” 

This naturally produced an uneasy sensation 
in her mind. “ I suppose,” she said, rather 
timidly, “that we are not in — what we have 
been accustomed to call heaven?” 

“ That is a word,” he said, “ which expresses 
rather a condition than a place.” 

“ But there must be a place — in which that 
condition can exist.” She had always been fond 
of discussions of this kind, and felt encouraged 
to find that they were still practicable. “ It 
cannot be the — Inferno ; that is clear, at least,” 
she added, with the sprightliness which was one 
of her characteristics ; “ perhaps — Purgatory ? 
since you infer I have something to endure.” 

“ Words are interchangeable,” he said : “ that 
means one thing to one of us which to another 
has a totally different signification.” There was 
something so like his old self in this, that she 
laughed with an irresistible sense of amuse- 
ment. 

“You were always fond of the oracular,” she 
said. She was conscious that on former occa- 
sions, if he made such a speech to her, though 
she would have felt the same amusement, she 
would not have expressed it so frankly. But he 


OLD LADY MARY. 


39 


did not take it at all amiss. And her thoughts 
went on in other directions. She felt herself 
saying over to herself the words of the old north- 
country dirge, which came to her recollection 
she knew not how — 

If hosen and shoon thou gavest nane. 

The whins shall prick thee intil the bane. 

When she saw that her companion heard her, 
she asked, “ Is that true? ” 

He shook his head a little. “ It is too mat- 
ter of fact,” he said, “ as I need hardly tell you. 
Hosen and shoon are good, but they do liot al- 
ways sufficiently indicate the state of the heart.” 

Lady Mary had a consciousness, which was 
pleasant to her, that so far as the hosen and 
shoon went, she had abundant means of prepar- 
ing herself for the pricks of any road, however 
rough; but she had no time to indulge this 
pleasing reflection, for she was shortly introdu^-.ed 
into a great building, full of innumerable rocr '^s, 
in one of which her companion left her. 


40 


OLD LADY MARY. 


IV. 


The door opened, and she felt herself free to 
come out. How long she had been there, or 
what passed there, is not for any one to say. 
She came out tingling and smarting — if such 
words can be used — with an intolerable recol- 
lection of the last act of her life. So intolerable 
was it that all that had gone before, and all the 
risings up of old errors and visions long dead, 
were forgotten in the sharp and keen prick of 
this, which was not over and done like the rest. 
No one had accused her, or brought before her 
judge the things that were against her. She it 
was who had done it all, — she, whose memory 
did not spare her one fault, who remembered 
everything. But when she came to that last 
frivolity of her old age, and saw for the first time 
how she had played with the future of the child 
whom she had brought up, and abandoned to 
the hardest fate, — for nothing, for folly, for a 
jest, — the horror and bitterness of the thought 
filled her mind to overflowing. In the first 
anguish of that recollection she had to go forth. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


41 


receiving no word of comfort in respect to it, 
meeting only with a look of sadness and compas- 
sion, which went to her very heart. She came 
forth as if she had been driven away, but not by 
any outward influence, by the force of her own 
miserable sensations. “ I will write,” she said 
to herself, and tell them ; I will go — ” And 
then she stopped short, remembering that she 
could neither go nor write, — that all communi- 
cation with the world she had left was closed. 
Was it all closed ? Was there no way in which 
a message could reach those who remained be- 
hind? She caught the first passer-by whom she 
passed, and addressed him piteously. “ Oh, tell 
me, — you have been longer here than I, — can- 
not one send a letter, a message, if it were only 
a single word ? ” 

Where?” he said, stopping and listening; 
so that it began to seem possible to hej that 
some such expedient might still be within her 
reach. 

“It is to England,” she said, thinking he 
meant to ask as to which quarter of the world. 

“ Ah,” he said, shaking his head, “ I fear that 
it is impossible.” 

“But it is to set something right, which out 
of mere inadvertence, with no ill meaning,” — ’ 


42 


OLD LADY MARY. 


No, no (she repeated to herself), no ill-meaning 
— none ! Oh sir, for charity ! tell me how I 
can find a way. There must — there must be 
some way.” 

He was greatly moved by the sight of her 
distress. “ I am but a stranger here,” he said ; 
‘‘ I may be wrong. There are others who can 
tell you better ; but ” — and he shook his head 
sadly — “ most of us would be so thankful, if we 
could, to send a word, if it were only a single 
word, to those we have left behind, that I fear, 
I fear — ” 

“Ah ! ” cried Lady Mary, “but that would be 
only for the tenderness ; whereas this is for jus- 
tice and for pity, and to do away with a great 
wrong which I did before I came here.” 

“ I am very sorry for you,” he said ; but shook 
his head once more as he went away. She was 
more careful next time, and chose one who had 
the look of much experience and knowledge of 
the place. He listened to her very gravely, and 
answered yes, that he was one of the officers, 
and could tell her whatever she wanted to know ; 
but when she told him what she wanted, he too 
shook his head. “ I do not say it cannot be 
done,” he said. “There are some cases in 
which it has been successful, but very few. It 


OLD LADY MARY. 


43 


has often been attempted. There is no law 
against it. Those who do it do it at their own 
risk. They suffer much, and almost always they 
fail.” 

“ No, oh no ! You said there were some who 
succeeded. No one can be more anxious than 
I. I will give — anything — everything I have 
in the world ! ” 

He gave her a smile, which was very grave 
nevertheless, and full of pity. You forget,” he 
said, “ that you have nothing to give ; and if you 
had, that there is no one here to whom it would 
be of any value.” 

Though she was no longer old and weak, yet 
she was still a woman, and she began to weep, 
in the terrible failure and contrariety of all things ; 
but yet she would not yield. She cried : “ There 
must be some one here who would do it for 
love. I have had people who loved me in my 
time. I must have some here who have not for- 
gotten me. Ah ! I know what you would say. 
I lived so long I forgot them all, and why should 
they remember me ? ” 

Here she was touched on the arm, and look- 
ing round, saw close to her the face of one 
whom, it was very true, she had forgotten. She 
remembered him but dimly after she had looked 


44 


OLD LADT MARY. 


long at him. A little group had gathered about 
her, with grieved looks, to see her distress. He 
who had touched her was the spokesman of 
them all. 

‘‘ There is nothing I would not do,” he said, 
“for you and for love.” And then they all 
sighed, surrounding her, and added, “ But it is 
impossible — impossible ! ” 

She stood and gazed at them, recognizing by 
degrees faces that she knew, and seeing in all 
that look of grief and sympathy which makes all 
human souls brothers. Impossible was not a 
word that had been often said to be in her life ; 
and to come out of a world in which everything 
could be changed, everything communicated in 
the twinkling of an eye, and find a dead blank 
before her and around her, through which not a 
word could go, was more terrible than can be 
said in words. She looked piteously upon them, 
with that anguish of helplessness which goes to 
every heart, and cried, “ What is impossible ? 
To send a word — only a word — to set right 
what is wrong? Oh, I understand,” she said, 
lifting up her hands. “ I understand that to 
send messages of comfort must not be ; that the 
people who love you must bear it, as we all have 
done in our time, and trust to God for consola- 


OLD LADY MARY. 


45 


tion. But I have done a wrong ! Oh, listen, 
listen to me, my friends. I have left a child, a 
young creature, unprovided for — without any 
one to help her. And must that be ? Must she 
bear it, and I bear it, forever, and no means, no 
way of setting it right ? Listen to me ! I was 
there last night, — in the middle of the night 
I was still there, — and here this morning. So 
it must be easy to come — only a short way; 
and two words would be enough, — only two 
words ! ” 

They gathered closer and closer round her^ 
full of compassion. It is easy to come,” they 
said, but not to go.” 

And one added, “ It will not be forever ; com- 
fort yourself. When she comes here, or to a 
better place, that will seem to you only as a 
day,” 

But to her,” cried Lady Mary, — to her 
it will be long .years — it will be trouble and 
sorrow; and she will think I took no thought 
for her; and she will be right,” the penitent 
said with a great and bitter cry. 

It was so terrible that they were all silent, and 
said not a word, — except the man who had loved 
her, who put his hand upon her arm, and said, 
“We are here for that ; this is the fire that 


46 


OLD LADY MARY. 


purges US, — to see at last what we have done, 
and the true aspect of it, and to know the cruel 
wrong, yet never be able to make amends.” 

She remembered then that this was a man 
who had neglected all lawful affections, and 
broken the hearts of those who trusted him for 
her sake ; and for a moment she forgot her own 
burden in sorrow for his. 

It was now that he who had called himself 
one of the officers came forward again ; for the 
little crowd had gathered round her so closely 
that he had been shut out. He said, ‘‘No one 
can carry your message for you ; that is not per- 
mitted. But there is still a possibility. You 
may have permission to go yourself. Such things 
have been done, though they have not often been 
successful. But if you will — ” 

She shivered when she heard him ; and it 
became apparent to her why no one could be 
found to go, — for all her nature revolted from 
that step, which it was evident must be the most 
terrible which could be thought of. She looked 
at him with troubled, beseeching eyes, and the 
rest all looked at her, pitying and trying to 
soothe her. 

“ Permission will not be refused,” he said, 
“for a worthy cause.” 


OLD LADY MARY. 


47 


Upon which the others all spoke, together, 
entreating her. “Already,’' they cried, “they 
have forgotten you living. You are to them one 
who is dead. They will be afraid of you if they 
can see you. Oh, go not back ! Be content 
to wait, — to wait ; it is only a little while. The 
life of man is nothing ; it appears for a little 
time, and then it vanishes away. And when she 
comes here she will know, — or in a better 
place.” They sighed as they named the better 
place ; though some smiled too, feeling perhaps 
more near to it. 

Lady Mary listened to them all, but she kept 
her eyes upon the face of him who offered her 
this possibility. There passed through her mind 
a hundred stories she had heard of those who 
had gone back. But not one that spoke of them 
as welcome, as received with joy, as comforting 
those they loved. Ah no ! was it not rather a 
curse upon the house to which they came ? The 
rooms were shut up, the houses abandoned, where 
they were supposed to appear. Those whom 
they had loved best feared and fled them. They 
were a vulgar wonder, — a thing that the poorest 
laughed at, yet feared. Poor, banished souls ! 
it was because no one would listen to them that 
they had to linger and wait, and come and go. 


I 


48 


OLD LADY MARY. 


She shivered, and in spite of her longing and her 
repentance, a cold dread and horror took posses- 
sion of her. She looked round upon her com- 
panions for comfort, and found none. 

‘‘Do not go,” they said; “do not go. We 
have endured like you. We wait till all things 
are made clear.” 

And another said, “All will be made clear. 
It is but for a time.” 

She turned from one to another, and back 
again to the first speaker, — he who had au- 
thority. 

He said, “ It is very rarely successful ; it re- 
tards the course of your penitence. It is an 
indulgence, and it may bring harm and not good : 
but if the meaning is generous and just, per- 
mission will be given, and you may go.” 

Then all the strength of her nature rose in her. 
She thought of the child forsaken, and of the 
dark world round her, where she would find so 
few friends ; and of the home shut up in which 
she had lived her young and pleasant life ; and of 
the thoughts that must rise in her heart, as though 
she were forsaken and abandoned of God and 
man. Then Lady Mary turned to the man who 
had authority. She said, “ If he whom I saw to- 
day will give me his blessing, I will go — ” and 


OLD LADY MARY. 


49 


they all pressed round her, weeping and kissing 
her hands. 

He will not refuse his blessing,” they said ; 
“ but the way is terrible, and you are still weak. 
How can you encounter all the misery of it? 
He commands no one to try that dark and 
dreadful way.” 

“ I will try,” Lady Mary said. 


4 


50 


OLD LADY MARY. 


V. 


The night which Lady Mary had been con- 
scious of, in a momentary glimpse full of the 
exaggeration of fever, had not indeed been so 
expeditious as she believed. The doctor, it is 
true, had been pronouncing her death-warrant 
when she saw him holding her wrist, and won- 
dered what he did there in the middle of the 
night ; but she had been very ill before this, and 
the conclusion of her life had been watched with 
many tears. Then there had risen up a wonder- 
ful commotion in the house, of which little Mary, 
her godchild, was very little sensible. Had she 
left any will, any instructions, the slightest indi- 
cation of what she wished to be done after her 
death? Mr. Furnival, who had been very anx- 
ious to be .allowed to see her, even in the last 
days of her illness, said emphatically, no. She 
had never executed any will, never made any dis- 
position of her affairs, he said, almost with bitter- 
ness, in the tone of one who is ready to weep 
with vexation and distress. The vicar took a 


OLD LADY MARY. 


51 


more hopeful view. He said it was impossible 
that so considerate a person could have done 
this, and that there must, he was sure, be found 
somewhere, if close examination was made, a 
memorandum, a letter, — something which should 
show what she wished ; for she must have known 
very well, notwithstanding all flatteries and com- 
pliments upon her good looks, that from day to 
day her existence was never to be calculated 
upon. The doctor did not share this last opin- 
ion. He said that there was no fathoming the 
extraordinary views that people took of their own 
case ; and that it was quite possible, though it 
seemed incredible, that Lady Mary might really 
be as little expectant of death, on the way to 
ninety, as a girl of seventeen ; but still he was of 
opinion that she might have left a memorandum 
somewhere. 

These three gentlemen were in the foreground 
of affairs ; because she had no relations to step 
in and take the management. The earl, her 
grandson, was abroad, and there were only his 
solicitors to interfere on his behalf, men to whom 
Lady Mary’s fortune was quite unimportant, al- 
though it was against their principles to let any- 
thing slip out of their hands that could aggrandize 
their client; but who knew nothing about the 


52 


OLD LADY MARY. 


circumstances, — about little Mary, about the old 
lady’s peculiarities, in any way. Therefore the 
persons who had surrounded her in her life, and 
Mr. Furnival, her man of business, were the per- 
sons who really had the management of every- 
thing. Their wives interfered a little too, or 
rather the one wife who only could do so, — the 
wife of the vicar, who came in beneficently at 
once, and took poor little Mary, in her first deso- 
lation, out of the melancholy house. Mrs. Vicar 
did this without any hesitation, knowing very well 
that, in all probability. Lady Mary had made no 
will, and consequently that the poor girl was 
destitute. A great deal is said about the hard- 
ness of the world, and the small consideration 
that is shown for a destitute dependant in such 
circumstances. But this is not true ; and, as a 
matter of fact, there is never, or very rarely, such 
profound need in the world, without a great deal 
of kindness and much pity. The three gentle- 
men all along had been entirely in Mary’s inter- 
est. They had not expected legacies from the 
old lady, or any advantage to themselves. It 
was of the girl that they had thought. And when 
now they examined everything and inquired into 
all her ways and what she had done, it was of 
Mary they were thinking. But Mr. Furnival w'as 


OLD LADY MARY. 


53 


very certain of his point. He knew that Lady 
Mary had made no will ; time after time he had 
pressed it upon her. He was very sure, even 
while he examined her writing-table, and turned 
out all the drawers, that nothing would be found. 
The little Italian cabinet had chiffons in its 
drawers, fragments of old lace, pieces of ribbon, 
little nothings of all sorts. Nobody thought of 
the secret drawer ; and if they had thought of it, 
where could a place have been found less likely ? 
If she had ever made a will, she could have had 
no reason for concealing it. To be sure, they did 
not reason in this way, being simply unaware 
of any place of concealment at all. And Mary 
knew nothing about this search they were mak- 
ing. She did not know how she was herself 
^Meft.” When the first misery of grief was ex- 
hausted, she began, indeed, to have troubled 
thoughts in her own mind, — to expect that the 
vicar would speak to her, or Mr. Furnival send 
for her, and tell her what she was to do. But 
nothing was said to her. The vicar’s wife had 
asked her to come for a long visit ; and the anx- 
ious people, who were forever talking over this 
subject and consulting what was best for her, had 
come to no decision as yet, as to what must be 
said to the person chiefly concerned. It was too 


54 


OLD LADY MARY. 


heart-rending to have to put the real state of affairs 
before her. 

The doctor had no wife ; but he had an anx- 
ious mother, who, though she would not for the 
world have been unkind to the poor girl, yet was 
very anxious that she should be disposed of and 
out of her son’s way. It is true that the doctor 
was forty and Mary only eighteen, — but what 
then? Matches of that kind were seen every 
day j and his heart was so soft to the child that 
his mother never knew from one day to another 
what might happen. She had naturally no doubt 
at all that Mary would seize the first hand held 
out to her ; and as time went on, held many an 
anxious consultation with the vicar’s wife on the 
subject. “ You cannot have her with you for- 
ever,” she said. “ She must know one time or 
another how she is left, and that she must learn 
to do something for herself.” 

“ Oh,” said the vicar’s wife, how is she to be 
told ? It is heart-rending to look at her and to 
think, — nothing but luxury all her life, and now, 
in a moment, destitution. I am very glad to 
have her with me : she is a dear little thing, and 
so nice with the children. And if some good 
man would only step in — ” 

The doctor’s mother trembled ; for that a 


OLD LADY MARY. 


55 


good man should step in was exactly what she 
feared. That is a thing that can never be de- 
pended upon,” she said ; “ and marriages made 
• out of compassion are just as bad as mercenary 
marriages. Oh no, my dear Mrs. Bowyer, Mary 
has a great deal of character. You should put 
more confidence in her than that. No doubt 
she will be much cast down at first, but when she 
knows, she will rise to the occasion and show 
what is in her.” 

‘‘ Poor little thing ! what is in a girl of eigh- 
teen, and one that has lain on the roses and fed 
on the lilies all her life ? Oh, I could find it in 
my heart to say a great deal about old Lady 
Mary that would not be pleasant ! Why did she 
bring her up so if she did not mean to provide 
for her ? I think she must have been at heart a 
wicked old woman.” 

“ Oh no ! we must not say that. I dare say, 
as my son says, she always meant to do it some- 
time — ” 

Sometime ! how long did she expect to live, 
I wonder? ” 

Well,” said the doctor’s mother, it is won- 
derful how little old one feels sometimes within 
one’s self, even when one is well up in years.” 
She was of the faction of the old, instead of being 


56 


OLD LADY MARY. 


like Mrs. Bowyer, who was not much over thirty, 
of the faction of the young. She could make 
excuses for Lady Mary ; but she thought that it 
was unkind to bring the poor little girl here in 
ignorance of her real position, and in the way of 
men who, though old enough to know better, 
were still capable of folly, — as what man is not, 
when a girl of eighteen is concerned ? “I hope,” 
she added, that the earl will do something for 
her. Certainly he ought to, when he knows all 
that his grandmother did, and what her intentions 
must have been. He ought to make her a little 
allowance; that is the least he can do, — not, 
to be sure, such a provision as we all hoped 
Lady Mary was going to make for her, but 
enough to live upon. Mr. Furnival, I believe, 
has written to him to that effect.” 

Hush ! ” cried the vicar’s wife ; indeed she 
had been making signs to the other lady, who 
stood with her back to the door, for some mo- 
ments. Mary had come in while this conver- 
sation was going on. She had not paid any 
attention to it ; and yet her ear had been caught 
by the names of Lady Mary, and the earl, and 
Mr. Furnival. For whom was it that the earl 
should make an allowance enough to live upon ? 
whom Lady Mary had not provided for, and 


OLD LADY MARY. 


57 


whom Mr. Furnival had written about? When 
she sat down to the needle-work in which she 
was helping Mrs. Vicar, it was not to be supposed 
that she should not ponder these words, — for 
some time very vaguely, not perceiving the mean- 
ing of them ; and then with a start she woke up 
to perceive that there must be something meant, 
some one, — even some one she knew. And 
then the needle dropped out of the girl’s hand, 
and the pinafore she was making fell on the 
floor. Some one ! it must be herself they meant ! 
Who but she could be the subject of that earnest 
conversation? She began to remember a great 
many conversations as earnest, which had been 
stopped when she came into the room, and the 
looks of pity which had been bent upon her. 
She had thought in her innocence that this was 
because she had lost her godmother, her pro- 
tectress, — and had been very grateful for the 
kindness of her friends. But now another mean- 
ing came into everything. Mrs. Bowyer had 
accompanied her visitor to the door, still talking, 
and when she returned her face was very grave. 
But she smiled when she met Mary’s look, and 
said cheerfully, — 

How kind of you, my dear, to make all 
those pinafores for me ! The little ones will not 


58 OLD lady’ MARY. 

know themselves. They never were so fine 
before.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Bowyer,” cried the girl, “ I have 
guessed something ! and I want you to tell me ! 
Are you keeping me for charity, and is it I that 
am left — without any provision, and that Mr. 
Furnival has written — ” 

She could not finish her sentence, for it was 
very bitter to her, as may be supposed. 

“ I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” 
cried the vicar’s wife. Charity, — well, I suppose 
that is the same as love, — at least it is so in the 
13th chapter of ist Corinthians. You are stay- 
ing with us, I hope, for love, if that is what you 
mean.” 

Upon which she took the girl in her arms and 
kissed her, and cried, as women must. “ My dear- 
est,” she said, as you have guessed the worst, 
it is better to tell you. Lady Mary — I don’t 
know why ; oh, I don’t wish to blame her — 
has left no will ; and, my dear, my dear, you 
who have been brought up in luxury, you have 
not a penny.” Here the vicar’s wife gave Mary 
a closer hug, and kissed her once more. “ We 
love you all the better, — if that was possible,” 
she said. 

How many thoughts will fly through a girl’s 


OLD LADY MARY. 


59 


mind while her head rests on some kind 
shoulder, and she is being consoled for the 
first calamity that has touched her life ! She 
was neither ungrateful nor unresponsive; but 
as Mrs. Bowyer pressed her close to her kind 
breast and cried over her, Mary did not cry, but 
thought, — seeing in a moment a succession 
of scenes, and realizing in a moment so com- 
plete a new world, that all her pain was quelled 
by the hurry and rush in her brain as her forces 
rallied to sustain her. She withdrew from her 
kind support after a moment, with eyes tearless 
and shining, the color mounting to her face, and 
not a sign of discouragement in her, nor yet of 
sentiment, though she grasped her kind friend’s 
hands with a pressure which her innocent small 
fingers seemed incapable of giving. “ One has 
read of such things — in books,” she said, with 
a faint courageous smile ; “ and I suppose they 
happen, — in life.” 

Oh, my dear, too often in life. Though how 
people can be so cruel, so indifferent, so careless 
of the happiness of those they love — ” 

Here Mary pressed her friend’s hands till they 
hurt, and cried, Not cruel, not indifferent. I 
cannot hear a word — ” 

Well, dear, it is like you to feel so, — I knew 


6o 


OLD LADY MARY. 


you would ; and I will not say a word. Oh, Mary, 
if she ever thinks of such things now — ” 

I hope she will not — I hope she cannot ! ” 
cried the girl, with once more a vehement pres- 
sure of her friend’s hands. 

‘‘What is that?” Mrs. Bowyer said, looking 
round. “ It is somebody in the next room, I 
suppose. No, dear; I hope so too, for she 
would not be happy if she remembered. Mary, 
dry your eyes, my dear. Try not to think of 
this. I am sure there is some one in the next 
room. And you must try not to look wretched, 
for all our sakes — ” 

“Wretched ! ” cried Mary, springing up. “I 
am not wretched.” And she turned with a 
countenance glowing and full of courage to the 
door. But there was no one there, — no visitor 
lingering in the smaller room as sometimes hap- 
pened. 

“ I thought I heard some one come in,” said 
the vicar’s wife. “ Did n’t you hear something, 
Mary? I suppose it is because I am so agitated 
with all this, but I could have sworn I heard 
some one come in.” 

“There is nobody,” said Mary, who, in the 
shock of the calamity which had so suddenly 
changed the world to her, was perfectly calm. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


6i 


She did not feel at all disposed to cry or “ give 
way.” It went to her head with a thrill of pain, 
which was excitement as well, like a strong stim- 
ulant suddenly applied ; and she added, “ I 
should like to go out a little, if you don’t mind, 
just to get used to the idea.” 

“ My dear, I will get my hat in a moment — ” 

“ No, please. It is not unkindness ; but I 
must think it over by myself, — by myself,” 
Mary cried. She hurried away, while Mrs. 
Bowyer took another survey of the outer room, 
and called the servant to know who had been 
calling. Nobody had been calling, the maid 
said ; but her mistress still shook her head. 

It must have been some one who does not 
ring, who just opens the door,” she said to her- 
self. “ That is the worst of the country. It 
might be Mrs. Blunt, or Sophia Blackburn, or 
the curate, or half-a-dozen people, — and they 
have just gone away when they heard me crying. 
How could I help crying? But I wonder how 
much they heard, whoever it was.” 


62 


OLD LADY MARY. 


VI. 

It was winter, and snow was on the ground. 

Lady Mary found herself on the road that led 
through her own village, going home. It was 
like a picture of a wintry night, — like one of 
those pictures that please the children at Christ- 
mas. A little snow sprinkled on the roofs, just 
enough to define them, and on the edges of the 
roads ; every cottage window showing a ruddy 
glimmer in the twilight ; the men coming home 
from their work ; the children, tied up in com- 
forters and caps, stealing in from the slides, and 
from the pond, where they were forbidden to go ; 
and, in the distance, the trees of the great House 
standing up dark, turning the twilight into night. 
She had a curious enjoyment in it, sirpple like 
that of a child, and a wish to talk to some one 
out of the fulness of her heart. She overtook, 
her step being far lighter than his, one of the 
men going home from his work, and spoke to 
him, telling him with a smile not to be afraid ; 
but he never so much as raised his head, and 
went plodding on with his heavy step, not know- 


OLD LADY MAkv. 


63 


ing that she had spoken to him. She was start- 
led by this; but said to herself, that the men 
were dull, that their perceptions were confused, 
and that it was getting dark ; and went on, pass- 
ing him quickly. His breath made a cloud in 
the air as he walked, and his heavy plodding 
steps sounded into the frosty night. She per- 
ceived that her own were invisible and inaudible, 
with a curious momentary sensation, half of pleas- 
ure, half of pain. She felt no cold, and she saw 
through the twilight as clearly as if it had been 
day. There was no fatigue or sense of weakness 
in her ; but she had the strange, wistful feeling 
of an exile returning after long years, not know- 
ing how he may find those he had left. At one 
of the first houses in the village there was a 
woman standing at her door, looking out for her 
children ; one who knew Lady Mary well. She 
stopped quite cheerfully to bid her good evening, 
as she had done in her vigorous days, before she 
grew old. It w^s a little experiment, too. She 
thought it possible that Catherine would scream 
out, and perhaps fly from her ; but surely would 
be easily reassured when she heard the voice she 
knew, and saw by her one who was no ghost, 
but her own kind mistress. But Catherine took 
no notice when she spoke ; she did not so much 


64 


OLD LADY MARY. 


as turn her head. Lady Mary stood by her pa- 
tiently, with more and more of that wistful desire 
to be recognized. She put her hand timidly up- 
on the woman’s arm, who was thinking of noth- 
ing but her boys, and calling to them, straining 
her eyes in the fading light. “ Don’t be afraid, 
they are coming, they are safe,” she said, pressing 
Catherine’s arm. But the woman never moved. 
She took no notice. She called to a neighbor 
who was passing, to ask if she had seen the 
children, and the two stood and talked in the 
dim air, not conscious of the third who stood 
between them, looking from one to another, 
astonished, paralyzed. Lady Mary had not 
been prepared for this; she could not believe 
it even now. She repeated their names more 
and more anxiously, and even plucked at their 
sleeves to call their attention. She stood as 
a poor dependant sometimes stands, wistful, 
civil, trying to say something that will please, 
while they talked and took no notice ; and then 
the neighbor passed on, and Catherine went into 
her house. It is hard to be left out in the cold 
when others go into their cheerful houses ; but to 
be thus left outside of life, to speak and not be 
heard, to stand unseen, astounded, unable to 
secure any attention ! She had thought they 


OLD LADY MARY. 


65 


would be frightened, but it was not they who 
were frightened. A great panic seized the wo- 
man who was no more of this world. She had 
almost rejoiced to find herself back walking so 
lightly, so strongly, finding everything easy that 
had been so hard ; and yet but a few minutes 
had passed, and she knew never more to be 
deceived, that she was no longer of this world. 
What if she should be condemned to wander 
forever among familiar places that knew her no 
more, appealing for a look, a word, to those who 
could no longer see her, or hear her cry, or 
know of her presence ? Terror seized upon her, 
a chill and pang of fear beyond description. 
She felt an impulse to fly wildly into the dark, 
into the night, like a lost creature ; to find again 
somehow, she could not tell how, the door out 
of which she had come, and beat upon it wildly 
with her hands, and implore to be taken home. 
For a moment she stood looking round her, lost 
and alone in the wide universe ; no one to speak 
to her, no one to comfort her ; outside of life 
altogether. Other rustic figures, slow-stepping, 
leisurely, at their ease, went and came, one at a 
time ; but in this place, where every stranger was 
an object of curiosity, no one cast a glance at 
her. She was as if she had never been. 


5 


66 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Presently she found herself entering her own 
house. It was all shut and silent, — not a window 
lighted along the whole front of the house which 
used to twinkle and glitter with lights. It soothed 
her somewhat to see this, as if in evidence that 
the place had changed with her. She went in 
silently, and the darkness was as day to her. 
Her own rooms were all shut up, yet were open to 
her steps, which no external obstacle could limit. 
There was still the sound of life below stairs, 
and in the housekeeper’s room a cheerful party 
gathered round the fire. It was then that she 
turned first, with some wistful human attraction, 
towards the warmth and light father than to the 
still places in which her own life had been passed. 
Mrs. Prentiss, the housekeeper, had her daugh- 
ter with her on a visit, and the daughter’s baby 
lay asleep in a cradle placed upon two chairs, 
outside the little circle of women round the table, 
one of whom was Jervis, Lady Mary’s maid. 
Jervis sat and worked and cried, and mixed her 
words with little sobs. I never thought as I 
should have had to take another place,” she said. 
“ Brown and me, we made sure of a little some- 
thing to start upon. He ’s been here for twenty 
years, and so have you, Mrs. Prentiss ; and me, as 
nobody can say I was n’t faithful night and day.” 


OLD LADY MARY. 67 

‘‘I never had that confidence in my lady to 
expect anything,” Prentiss said. 

“ Oh, mother, don’t say that : many and many 
a day you’ve said, ‘ When my lady dies — ’ ” 

“ And we ’ve all said it,” said Jervis. I can’t 
think how she did it, nor why she did it ; for 
she was a kind lady, though appearances is 
against her.” 

She was one pf them, and I Ve known a 
many, as could not abide to see a gloomy face,” 
said the housekeeper. “She kept us all com- 
fortable for the sake of being comfortable her- 
self, but no more.” 

“ Oh, you are hard upon my lady ! ” cried 
Jervis, “ and I can’t bear to hear a word against 
her, though it ’s been an awful disappointment 
to me.” 

“ What ’s you or me, or any one,” cried Mrs. 
Prentiss, “ in comparison of that poor little thing 
that can’t work for her living like we can ; that 
is left on the charity of folks she don’t belong 
to ? I ’d have forgiven my lady anything, if 
s’ue ’d done what was right by Miss Mary. You ’1) 
get a place, and a good place ; and me, they ’b 
leave me here when the new folks come as have 
taken the house. But what will become of her, 
the darling? and not a penny, nor a friend, nov 


68 


OLD LADY MARY. 


one to look to her ? Oh, you selfish old woman ! 
oh, you heart of stone ! I just hope you are feel- 
ing it where you ’re gone,” the housekeeper cried. 

But as she said this, the woman did not know 
who was looking at her with wide, wistful eyes, 
holding out her hands in appeal, receiving every 
word as if it had been a blow, — though she 
knew it was useless. Lady Mary could not help 
it. She cried out to them, “Have pity upon 
me ! Have pity upon me ! I am not cruel, as 
you think,” with a keen anguish in her voice, 
which seemed to be sharp enough to pierce the 
very air and go up to the skies. And so, per- 
haps, it did; but never touched the human 
atmosphere in which she stood a stranger. Jervis 
was threading her needle when her mistress ut- 
tered that cry ; but her hand did not tremble, 
nor did the thread deflect a hair’s-breadth from 
the straight line. The young mother alone 
seemed to be moved by some faint disturbance. 
“Hush! ’’she said, “is he waking?” — looking 
towards the cradle. But as the baby made no 
further sound, she too, returned to her sewing ; 
and they sat bending their heads over their work 
round the table, and continued their talk. The 
room was very comfortable, bright, and warm, as 
Lady Mary had liked all her rooms to be. The 


OLD LADY MARY. 


69 


warm firelight danced upon the walls ; the women 
talked in cheerful tones. She stood outside their 
circle, and looked at them with a wistful face. 
Their notice would have been more sweet to her, 
as she stood in that great humiliation, than in 
other times the look of a queen. 

‘‘But what is the matter with baby?” the 
mother said, rising hastily. 

It was with no servile intention of securing a 
look from that little prince of life that she who 
was not of this world had stepped aside forlorn, 
and looked at him in his cradle. Though she 
was not of this world, she was still a woman, and 
had nursed her children in her arms. She bent 
over the infant by the soft impulse of nature, 
tenderly, with no interested thought. But the 
child saw her ; was it possible ? He turned his 
head towards her, and flickered his baby hands, 
and cooed with that indescribable voice that 
goes to every woman’s heart. Lady Mary felt 
such a thrill of pleasure go through her, as no 
incident had given her for long years. She put 
out her arms to him as his mother snatched him 
from his little bed ; and he, which was more 
wonderful, stretched towards her in his inno- 
cence, turning away from them all. 

“He wants to go to some one,” cried the 


70 


OLD LADY MARY. 


mother. Oh look, look, for God’s sake ! who 
is there that the child sees? ” 

“There’s no one there, — not a soul. Now 
dearie, dearie, be reasonable. You can see for 
yourself there ’s not a creature,” said the grand- 
mother. 

“ Oh, my baby, my baby ! He sees something 
we can’t see,” the young woman cried. “ Some- 
thing has happened to his father, or. he ’s going 
to be taken from me ! ” she said, holding the child 
to her in a sudden passion. The other women 
rushed to her to console her, — the mother with 
reason, and Jervis with poetry. “ It ’s the angels 
whispering, like the song says.” Oh, the pang 
that was in the heart of the other whom they could 
not hear ! She stood wondering how it could 
be, — wondering with an amazement beyond 
words, how all that was in her heart, the love and 
the pain, and the sweetness and bitterness, could 
all be hidden, — all hidden by that air in which the 
women stood so clear ! She held out her hands, 
she spoke to them, telling who she was, but no 
one paid any attention ; only the little dog Fido, 
who had been basking by the fire, sprang up, 
looked at her, and retreating slowly backwards 
till he reached the wall, sat down there and 
looked at her again, with now and then a little 


OLD LADY MARY. 


71 


bark of inquiry. The dog saw her. This gave 
her a curious pang of humiliation, yet pleasure. 
She went away out of that little centre of human 
life in a great excitement and thrill of her whole 
being. The child had seen her, and the dog ; 
but, oh heavens ! how was she to work out her 
purpose by such auxiliaries as these? 

She went up to her old bedchamber with un- 
shed tears heavy about her eyes, and a pathetic 
smile quivering on her mouth. It touched her 
beyond measure that the child should have that 
confidence in her. “ Then God is still with me,” 
she said to herself. Her room, which had been 
so warm and bright, lay desolate in the stillness 
of the night ; but she wanted no light, for the 
darkness was no darkness to her. She looked 
round her for a little, wondering to think how far 
away from her now was this scene of her old life, 
but feeling no pain in the sight of it, ■ — only a 
kind indulgence for the foolish simplicity which 
had taken so much pride in all these infantile 
elements of living. She went to the little Italian 
cabinet which stood against the wall, feeling now 
at least that she could do as she would, — that 
here there was no blank of human unconscious- 
ness to stand in her way. But she was met by 
something that baffled and vexed her once more. 


72 


OLD LADY MARY. 


She felt the polished surface of the wood under 
her hand, and saw all the pretty ornamentation, 
the inlaid-work, the delicate'carvings, which she 
knew so well ; they swam in her eyes a little, as 
if they were part of some phantasmagoria about 
her, existing only in her vision. Yet the smooth 
surface resisted her touch ; and when she with- 
drew a step from it, it stood before her solidly 
and square, as it had stood always — a glory to 
the place. She put forth her hands upon it, and 
could have traced the waving lines of the exqui- 
site work, in which some artist soul had worked 
itself out in the old times ; but though she thus 
saw it and felt, she could not with all her en- 
deavors find the handle of the drawer, the richly- 
wrought knob of ivory, the little door that opened 
into the secret place. How long she stood by 
it, attempting again and again to find what was 
as familiar to her as her own hand, what was be- 
fore her, visible in every line, what she felt with 
fingers which began to tremble, she could not tell. 
Time did not count with her as with common 
men. She did not grow weary, or require re- 
freshment or rest, like those who were still of this 
world. But at length her head grew giddy and 
her heart failed. A cold despair took possession 
of her soul. She could do nothing, then, — noth- 


OLD LADY MARY. 


73 


ing ; neither by help of man, neither by use of 
her own faculties, which were greater and clear- 
er than ever before. She sank down upon 'the 
floor at the foot of that old toy, which had pleased 
her in the softness of her old age, to which 
she had trusted the fortunes of another; by 
which, in wantonness and folly she had sinned, 
she had sinned ! And she thought she saw 
standing round her companions in the land she 
had left, saying, “ It is impossible, impossible ! ” 
with infinite pity in their eyes ; and the face of 
him who had given her permission to come, yet 
who had said no word to her to encourage her 
in what was against nature. And there came 
into her heart a longing to fly, to get home, to 
be back in the land where her fellows were, and 
her appointed place. A child lost, how pitiful 
that is ! without power to reason and divine how 
help will come ; but a soul lost, outside of one 
method of existence, withdrawn from the other, 
knowing no way to retrace its steps, nor how 
help can come ! There had been no bitterness 
in passing from earth to the land where she had 
gone ; but now there came upon her soul, in all 
the power of her new faculties, the bitterness of 
death. The place which was hers she had for- 
saken and left, and the place that had been hers 
knew her no more. 


74 


OLD LADY MARY. 


VII. 

Mary, when she left her kind friend in the 
vicarage, went out and took a long walk. She 
had received a shock so great that it took all 
sensation from her, and threw her into the seeth- 
ing and surging of an excitement altogether beyond 
her control. She could not think until she had 
got familiar with the idea, which indeed had been 
vaguely shaping itself in her mind ever since she 
had emerged from the first profound gloom and 
prostration of the shadow of death. She had 
never definitely thought of her position before, — 
never even asked herself what was to become of 
her when Lady Mary died. She did not see, 
any more than Lady Mary did, why she should 
ever die ; and girls, who have never wanted any-, 
thing in their lives, who have had no sharp ex- 
perience to enlighten them, are slow to think 
upon such subjects. She had not expected any- 
thing ; her mind had not formed any idea of 
inheritance ; and it had not surprised her to 
hear of the earl, who was Lady Mary’s natural 
heir, nor to feel herself separated from the 


OLD LADY MARY. 


75 


house in which all her previous life had been 
passed. But there had been gradually dawning 
upon her a sense that she had come to a crisis 
in her life, and that she must soon be told what 
was to become of her. It was not so urgent as 
that she should ask any questions ; but it began 
to appear very clearly in her mind that things 
were not to be with her as they had been. She 
had heard the complaints and astonishment of 
the servants, to whom Lady Mary had left noth- 
ing, with resentment, — Jervis, who could not 
marry and take her lodging-house, but must 
wait until she had saved more money, and wept 
to think, after all her devotion, of having to take 
another place ; and Mrs. Prentiss, the house- 
keeper, who was cynical, and expounded Lady 
Mary’s kindness to her servants to be the issue 
of a refined selfishness ; and Brown, who had 
sworn subdued oaths, and had taken the liberty 
of representing himself to Mary as “ in the same 
box ” with herself. Mary had been angry, very 
angry at all this ; and she had not by word or 
look given any one to understand that she felt 
herself ‘^in the same box.” But yet she had 
been vaguely anxious, curious, desiring to know. 
And she had not even begun to think what she 
should do. That seemed a sort of affront to her 


76 


OLD LADY MARY. 


godmother’s memory, at all events, until some 
one had made it clear to her. But now, in a 
moment, with her first consciousness of the im- 
portance of this matter in the sight of others, a 
consciousness of what it was to herself, came 
into her mind. A change of everything, — a 
new life, — a new world ; and not only so, but a 
severance from the old world, — a giving up of 
everything that had been most near and pleasant 
to her. 

These thoughts were driven through her mind 
like the snowflakes in a storm. The year had 
slid on since Lady Mary’s death. Winter was 
beginning to yield to spring ; the snow was over, 
and the great cold. And other changes had 
taken place. The great house had been let, and 
the family who had taken it had been about a 
week in possession. Their coming had inflicted 
a wound upon Mary’s heart ; but everybody had 
urged upon her the idea that it was much better 
the house should be let for a time, “ till every- 
thing was settled.” When all was settled, things 
would be different. Mrs. Vicar did not say, 
‘^You can then do what you please,” but she 
did convey to Mary’s mind somehow a sort of 
inference that she would have something to do it 
with. And when Mary had protested. “ It 


OLD LADY MARY. 


77 


shall never be let again with my will,” the kind 
woman had said tremulously, “ Well, my dear ! ” 
and had changed the subject. All these things 
now came to Mary’s mind. They had been 
afraid to tell her ; they had thought it would be 
so much to her, — so important, such a crushing 
blow. To have nothing, — to be destitute ; to 
be wTitten about by Mr. Furnival to the earl ; 
to have her case represented, — Mary felt her- 
self stung by such unendurable suggestions into 
an energy — a determination — of which her soft 
young life had known nothing. No one should 
write about her, or ask charity for her, she said 
to herself. She had gone through the woods and 
round the park, which was not large, and now 
she could not leave these beloved precincts 
without going to look at the house. Up to this 
time she had not had the courage to go near 
the house ; but to the commotion and fever of 
her mind every violent sensation was congenial, 
and she went up the avenue now almost gladly, 
with a little demonstration to herself of energy 
and courage. Why not that as well as all the 
rest? 

It was once more twilight, and the dimness 
favored her design. She wanted to go there un- 
seen, to look up at the windows with their alien 


78 


OLD LADY MARY. 


lights, and to think of the time when Lady Mary 
sat behind the curtains, and there was nothing 
but tenderness and peace throughout the house. 
There was a light in every window along the 
entire front, a lavishness of firelight and lamp- 
light which told of a household jn which there 
were many inhabitants. Mary’s mind was so 
deeply absorbed, and perhaps her eyes so dim 
with tears that she could scarcely see what was 
before her, when the door opened suddenly and 
a lady came out. I will go myself,” she said 
in an agitated tone to some one behind her. 
“ Don ’t get yourself laughed at,” said a voice 
from within. The sound of the voices roused 
the young spectator. She looked with a little 
curiosity, mixed with anxiety, at the lady who had 
come out of the house, and who started, too, with 
a gesture of alarm, when she saw Mary move in 
the dark. ‘‘ Who are you ? ” she cried out in a 
trembling voice, and what do you want here ? ” 

Then Mary made a step or two forward and 
said, “ I must ask your pardon if I am trespass- 
ing. I did not know there was any objection — ” 
This stranger to make an objection ! It brought 
something like a tremulous laugh to Mary’s lips. 

‘‘Oh, there is no objection,” said the lady, 
“ only we have been a little put out. I see now ; 


OLD LADY MARY. 


79 


you are the young lady who — you are the young 
lady that — you are the one that — suffered 
most.” 

'‘I am Lady Mary’s goddaughter,” said the 
girl. “I have lived here all ray life.” 

Oh, my dear, I have heard all about you,” 
the lady cried. The people who had taken the 
house were merely rich people ; they had no 
other characteristic ; and in the vicarage, as well 
as in the other houses about, it was said, when 
they were spoken of, that it was a good thing 
they were not people to be visited, since nobody 
could have had the heart to visit strangers in 
Lady Mary’s house. And Mary could not but 
feel a keen resentment to think that her story, 
such as it was, the story which she had only now 
heard in her own person, should be discussed by 
such people. But the speaker had a look of 
kindness, and, so far as could be seen, of per- 
plexity and fretted anxiety in her face, and had 
been in a hurry, but stopped herself in order to 
show her interest. “ I wonder,” she said im- 
pulsively, “ that you can come here and look at 
the place again, after all that has passed.” 

“I never thought,” said Mary, “that there 
could be — any objection.” 

“ Oh, how can you think I mean that ? — how 


8o 


OLD LADY MARY. 


can you pretend to think so?” cried the other, 
impatiently. “ But after you have been treated 
so heartlessly, so unkindly, — and left, poor thing ! 
they tell me, without a penny, without any pro- 
vision — ” 

“I don’t know you,” cried Mary, breathless 
with quick rising passion. “ I don’t know what 
right you can have to meddle with my affairs.” 

The lady stared at her for a moment without 
speaking, and then she said, all at once, “ That 
is quite true, — but it is rude as well ; for though 
I have no right to meddle with your affairs, I did 
it in kindness, because I took an interest in you 
from all I have heard.” 

Mary was very accessible to such a reproach 
and argument. Her face flushed with a sense of 
her own churlishness. “ I beg your pardon,” 
she said ; ‘‘ I am sure you mean to be kind.” 

“Well,” said the stranger, “that is perhaps 
going too far on the other side, for you can’t 
even see my face, to know what I mean. But I 
do mean to be kind, and I am very sorry for you. 
And though I think you ’ve been treated abomi- 
nably, all the same I like you better for not allow- 
ing any one to say so. And now, do you know 
where I was going? I was going to the vicar- 
age, — where you are living, I believe, — to see 


OLD LADY MARY. 


8l 


if the vicar, or his wife, or you, or all of you to- 
gether, -could do a thing for me.” 

“Oh, I am sure Mrs. Bowyer — ” said Mary, 
with a voice much less assured than her words. 

“ You must not be too sure, my dear. I know 
she doesn’t mean to call upon me, because my 
husband is a city man. That is just as she pleases. 
I am not very fond of city men myself. But 
there ’s no reason why I should stand on cere- 
mony when I want something, is there? Now, 
my dear, I want to know — Don’t laugh at me. 
I am not superstitious, so far as I am aware ; 
but — Tell me, in your time was there ever any 
disturbance, any appearance you couldn’t under- 
stand, any — Well, I don’t like the word ghost. 
It’s disrespectful, if there ’s anything of the sort : 
and it ’s vulgar if there is n’t. But you know what 
I mean. Was there anything — of that sort — 
in your time ? ” 

In your time ! Poor Mary had scarcely real- 
ized yet that her time was over. Her heart re- 
fused to allow it when it was thus so abruptly 
brought before her,, but she obliged herself to sub- 
due these rising rebellions, and to answer, though 
with some hauteur^ “There is nothing of the 
kind that I ever heard of. There is no supersti- 
tion or ghost in our house.” 

6 


82 


OLD LADY MARY. 


She thought it was the vulgar desire of new 
people to find a conventional mystery* and it 
seemed to Mary that this was a desecration of 
her home. Mrs. Turner, however (for that was 
her name) , did not receive the intimation as the 
girl expected, but looked at her very gravely, 
and said, “ That makes it a great deal more seri- 
ous,” as if to herself. She paused and then 
added, “ You see, the case is this. I have a 
little girl who is our youngest, who is just my hus- 
band’s idol. She is a sweet little thing, though 
perhaps I should not say it. Are you fond of 
children? Then I almost feel sure you would 
think so too. Not a moping child at all, or too 
clever, or an)rthing to alarm one. Well, you 
know, little Connie, since ever we came in, has 
seen an old lady walking about the house.” 

An old lady ! ” said Mary, with an involun- 
tary smile. 

“ Oh, yes. I laughed too, the first time. I said 
it would be old Mrs. Prentiss, or perhaps the 
char-woman, or some old lady from the village 
that had been in the habit of coming in the for- 
mer people’s time. But the child got very angry. 
She said it was a real lady. She would not allow 
me to speak. Then we thought perhaps it was 
some one who did not know the house was let, 


OLD LADY MARY. 


83 


and had walked in to look at it ; but nobody 
would go on coming like that with all the signs 
of a large family in the house. And now the 
doctor says the child must be low, that the place 
perhaps does n’t agree with her, and that we must 
send her away. Now I ask you, how could I 
send little Connie away, the apple of her father’s 
eye? I should have to go with her, of course, 
and how could the house get on without me? 
Naturally we are very anxious. And this after- 
noon she has seen her again, and sits there cry- 
ing because she says the dear old lady looks so 
sad. I just seized my hat, and walked out, to 
come to you and your friends at the vicarage, to 
see if you could help me. Mrs. Bowyer may 
look down upon a city person, — I don’t mind 
that ; but she is a mother, and surely she would 
feel for a mother,” cried the poor lady vehe- 
mently, putting up her hands to her wet eyes. 

“ Oh, indeed, indeed she would ! I am sure 
now that she will call directly. We did not 
know what a — ” Mary stopped herself in saying, 
what a nice woman you are,” which she thought 
would be rude, though poor Mrs. Turner would 
have liked it. But then she shook her head and 
added, “ What could any of us do to help you? I 
have never heard of any old lady. There never 


84 


OLD LADY MARY. 


was anything — I know all about the house, 
everything that has ever happened, and Prentiss 
will tell you. There is nothing of that kind, — 
indeed, there is nothing. You must have — ” 
But here Mary stopped again ; for to suggest that 
a new family, a city family, should have brought 
an apparition of their own with them, was too 
ridiculous an idea to be entertained. 

“ Miss Vivian,” said Mrs. Turner, “ will you 
come back with me and speak to the child? ” 

At this Mary faltered a little. “ I have never 
been there — since the — funeral,” she said. 

The good woman laid a kind hand upon her 
shoulder, caressing and soothing. ‘‘You were 
very fond of her — in spite of the way she has 
used you?” 

“ Oh, how dare you, or any one, to speak of 
her so ! She used me as if I had been her 
dearest child. She was more kind to me than a 
mother. There is no one in the world like her ! ” 
Mary cried. 

“ And yet she left you without a penny. Oh, 
you must be a good girl to feel for her like that. 
She left you without — What are you going 
to do, my dear ? I feel like a friend. I feel like 
a mother to you, though you don’t know me. 
You must n ’t think it is only curiosity. You can’t 


OLD LADY MARY. - 85 

Stay with your friends for ever, — and what are 
you going to do ? ” 

There are some cases in which it is more easy 
to speak to a stranger than to one’s dearest and 
oldest friend. Mary had felt this when she 
rushed out, not knowing how to tell the vicar’s 
wife that she must leave her, and find some inde- 
pendence for herself. It was, however, strange 
to rush into such a discussion with so little warn- 
ing, and Mary’s pride was very sensitive. She 
said, “ I am not going to burden my friends,” 
with a little indignation ; but then she remem- 
bered how forlorn she was, and her voice soft- 
ened. “ I must do something, — but I don’t 
know what I am good' for,” she said, trembling, 
and on the verge of tears. 

My dear, I have heard a great deal about 
you,” said the stranger; is not rash, though 
it may look so. Come back with me directly, 
and see Connie. She is a very interesting little 
thing, though I say it ; it is wonderful sometimes 
to hear her talk. You shall be her governess, 
my dear. Oh, you need not teach her anything, 
— that is not what I mean. I think, I am sure, 
you will be the saving of her. Miss Vivian ; and 
such a lady as you are, it will be everything for 
the other girls to live with you. Don’t stop to 


86 


OLD LADY MARY. 


think, but just come with me. You shall have 
whatever you please, and always be treated like 
a lady. Oh, my dear, consider my feehngs as a 
mother, and come ; oh, come to Connie ! I 
know you will save her; it is an inspiration. 
Come back ! Come back with me ! ” 

It seemed to Mary too like an inspiration. 
What it cost her to cross that threshold and 
walk in, a stranger, to the house which had been 
all her life as her own, she never said to any 
one. But it was independence ; it was deliver- 
ance from entreaties and remonstrances without 
end. It was a kind of setting right, so far as 
could be, of the balance which had got so ter- 
ribly wrong. No writing to the earl now ; no 
appeal to friends ; anything in all the world, — 
much more, honest service and kindness, — must 
be better than that. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


S7 


VIII. 

Tell the young lady all about it, Connie,” 
said her mother. 

But Connie was very reluctant to tell. She 
was very shy, and clung to her mother, and hid 
her face in her ample dress ; and though pres- 
ently she was beguiled by Mary’s voice, and in 
a short time came to her side, and clung to her 
as she had clung to Mrs. Turner, she still kept 
her secret to herself. They were all very kind 
to Mary, the elder girls standing round in a 
respectful circle looking at her, while their 
mother exhorted them to “ take a pattern ” by 
Miss Vivian. The novelty, the awe which she 
inspired, the real kindness about her, ended in 
overcoming in Mary’s young mind the first 
miserable impression of such a return to her 
home. It gave her a kind of pleasure to write 
to Mrs. Bowyer that she had found employment, 
and had thought it better to accept it at once. 
“ Don’t be angry with me ; and I think you will 
understand me,” she said. And then she gave 
herself up to the strange new scene. 


88 


OLD LADY MARY. 


The “ ways ” of the large simple-minded 
family, homely, yet kindly, so transformed Lady 
Mary’s graceful old rooms that they no longer 
looked the same place. And when Mary sat 
down with them at the big heavy-laden table, 
surrounded with the hum of so large a party, it 
was impossible for her to believe that everything 
was not new about her. In no way' could the 
saddening recollections of a home from which 
the chief figure had disappeared, have been 
more completely broken up. Afterwards Mrs. 
Turner took her aside, and begged to know 
which was Mary’s old room, “ for I should like 
to put you there, as if nothing had happened.” 
“ Oh, do not put me there ! ” Mary cried, so 
much has happened.” But this seemed a re- 
finement to the kind woman, which it was far 
better for her young guest not to “ yield ” to. 
The room Mary had occupied had been next 
to her godmother’s, with a door between, and 
when it turned out that Connie, with an elder 
sister, was in Lady Mary’s room, everything 
seemed perfectly arranged in Mrs. Turner’s eyes. 
She thought it was providential, — with a simple 
belief in Mary’s powers that in other circum- 
stances would have been amusing. But there 
was no amusement in Mary’s mind when she 


OLD LADY MARY. 


89 


took possession of the old room “ as if nothing 
had happened.” She sat by the fire for half the 
night, in an agony of silent recollection and 
thought, going over the last days of her god- 
mother’s life, calling up everything before her, 
and realizing as she had never realized till now, 
the lonely career on which she was setting out, 
the subjection to the will and convenience of 
strangers in which henceforth her life must be 
passed. This was a kind woman who had 
opened her doors to the destitute girl; but 
notwithstanding, however great the torture to 
Mary, there was no escaping this room which 
was haunted by the saddest recollections of her 
life. Of such things she must no longer com- 
plain, — nay, she must think of nothing but 
thanking the mistress of the house for her 
thoughtfulness, for the wish to be kind, which 
so often exceeds the performance. 

The room was warm and well lighted ; the 
night was very calm and sweet outside, nothing 
had been touched or changed of all her little 
decorations, the ornaments which had been so 
delightful to her girlhood. A large photograph 
of Lady Mary held the chief place over the 
mantel-piece, representing her in the fulness of 
her beauty, — a photograph which had been 


90 


OLD LADY MARY. 


taken from the picture painted ages ago by a 
Royal Academician. It fortunately was so little 
like Lady Mary in her old age that, save as a 
thing which had always hung there, and belonged 
to her happier life, it did not affect the girl ; but 
no picture was necessary to bring before her the 
well-remembered figure. She could not realize 
that the little movements she heard on the other 
side of the door were any other than those of 
her mistress, her friend, her mother ; for all these 
names Mary lavished upon her in the fulness of 
her heart. The blame that was being cast upon 
Lady Mary from all sides made this child of her 
bounty but more deeply her partisan, more warm 
in her adoration. She would not, for all the in- 
heritances of the world, have acknowledged even 
to herself that Lady Mary was in fault. Mary felt 
that she would rather a thousand times be poor 
and have to gain her daily bread, than that she 
who had nourished and cherished her should 
have been forced in her cheerful old age to 
think, before she chose to do so, of parting and 
farewell and the inevitable end. 

She thought, like every young creature in 
strange and painful circumstances, that she would 
be unable to sleep, and did indeed lie awake 
and weep for an hour or more, thinking of all 


OLD LADY MARY. 


91 


the changes that had happened ; but sleep over- 
took her before she knew, while her mind was 
still full of these thoughts ; and her dreams were 
endless, confused, full of misery and longing. 
She dreamed a dozen times over that she heard 
Lady Mary’s soft call through the open door, — 
which was not open, but shut closely and locked 
by the sisters who now inhabited the next room ; 
and once she dreamed that Lady Mary came to 
her bedside and stood there looking at her 
earnestly, with the tears flowing from her eyes. 
Mary struggled in her sleep to tell her benefactress 
how she loved her, and approved of all she had 
done, and wanted nothing, — but felt herself 
bound as by a nightmare, so that she could not 
move or speak, or even put out a hand to dry 
those tears which it was intolerable to her to see ; 
and woke with the struggle, and the miserable sen- 
sation of seeing her dearest friend weep and being 
unable to comfort her. The moon was shining 
into the room, throwing part of it into a cold, full 
light, while blackness lay in all corners. The 
impression of her dream was so strong that 
Mary’s eyes turned instantly to the spot where 
in her dream her godmother had stood. To be 
sure, there was nobody there ; but as her con- 
sciousness returned, and with it the sweep of 


92 


OLD LADY MARY. 


painful recollection, the sense of change, the mis- 
erable contrast between the present and the 
past, — sleep fled from her eyes. She fell into the 
vividly awake condition which is the alternative 
of broken sleep, and gradually, as she lay, there 
came upon her that mysterious sense of another 
presence in the room which is so subtle and 
indescribable. She neither saw anything nor 
heard anything, and yet she felt that some one 
was there. 

She lay still for some time and held her breath, 
listening for a movement, even for the sound of 
breathing, — scarcely alarmed, yet sure that she 
was not alone. After a while she raised herself 
on her pillow, and in a low voice asked, “ Who 
is there? is any one there?” There was no 
reply, no sound of any description, and yet the 
conviction grew upon her. Her heart began to 
beat, and the blood to mount to her head. Her 
own being made so much sound, so much com- 
motion, that it seemed to her she could not hear 
anything save those beatings and pulsings. Yet 
she was not afraid. After a time, however, the 
oppression became more than she could bear. 
She got up and lit her candle, and searched 
through the familiar room ; but she found no 
trace that any one had been there. The fumi- 


OLD LADY MARY. 


93 


ture was all in its usual order. There was no 
hiding-place where any human thing could find 
refuge. When she had satisfied herself, and was 
about to return to bed, suppressing a sensation 
which must, she said to herself, be altogether 
fantastic, she was startled by a low knocking at 
the door of communication. Then she heard 
the voice of the elder girl. “ Oh, Miss Vivian — 
what is it? Have you seen anything? ” A new 
sense of anger, disdain, humiliation, swept through 
Mary’s mind. And if she had seen anything, 
she said to herself, what was that to those strang- 
ers? She replied, No, nothing ; what should I 
see?” in a tone which was almost haughty, in 
spite of herself. 

thought it might be — the ghost. Oh, 
please, don’t be angry. I thought I heard this 
door open, but it is locked. Oh ! perhaps it is 
very silly, but I am so frightened. Miss Vivian.” 

Go back to bed,” said Mary; ‘Hhere is no 

— ghost. I am going to sit up and write some 

— letters. You will see my light under the 
door.” 

Oh, thank you,” cried the girl. 

Mary remembered what a consolation and 
strength in all wakefulness had been the glimmer 
of the light under her godmother’s door. She 


94 


OLD LADY MARY. 


smiled to think that she herself, so desolate as 
she was, was able to afford this innocent comfort 
to another girl, and then sat down and wept 
quietly, feeling her solitude and the chill about 
her, and the dark and the silence. The moon 
had gone behind a cloud. There seemed no 
light but her small, miserable candle in earth and 
heaven. And yet that poor little speck of light 
kept up the heart of another, — which made her 
smile again in the middle of her tears. And 
by-and-by the commotion in her head and heart 
calmed down, and she too fell asleep. 

Next day she heard all the floating legends 
that were beginning to rise in the house. They 
all arose from Connie’s questions about the old 
lady whom she had seen going up-stairs before 
her, the first evening after the new family’s 
arrival. It was in the presence of the doctor, — 
who had come to see the child, and whose sur- 
prise at finding Mary there was almost ludicrous, 
— that she heard the story, though much against 
his will. 

There can be no need for troubling Miss 
Vivian about it,” he said, in a tone which was 
almost rude. But Mrs. Turner was not sensitive. 

“ When Miss Vivian has just come like a dear, 
to help us with Connie ! ” the good woman cried. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


95 


“ Of course she must hear it, doctor, for other- 
wise, how could she know what to do?” 

“ Is it true that you have come here — here ? 
to help — Good heavens. Miss Mary, hereV' 

“Why not here?” Mary said, smiling as but 
she could. “ I am Connie’s governess, doctor.” 

He burst out into that suppressed roar which 
serves a man instead of tears, and jumped up 
from his seat, clenching his fist. The clenched 
fist was to the intention of the dead woman 
'whose fault this w'as ; and if it had ever entered 
the doctor’s mind, as his mother supposed, to 
marry this forlorn child, and thus bestow a home 
upon her whether she would or no, no doubt he 
would now have attempted to carry out that plan. 
But as no such thing had occurred to him, the 
doctor only showed his sense of the intolerable 
by look and gesture. “ I must speak to the 
vicar. I must see Furnival. It can’t be per- 
mitted,” he cried. 

“Do you think I shall not be kind to her, 
doctor?” cried Mrs. Turner. “'Oh, ask her! 
she is one that understands. She .knows far 
better than that. We’ re not fine people, doctor, 
but we ’re kind people. I can say that for my- 
self. There is nobody in this house but will be 
good to her, and admire her, and take an exam- 


96 


OLD LADY MARY. 


pie by her. To have a real lady with the girls, 
that is what I would give anything for ; and as 
she wants taking care of, poor dear, and petting, 
and an ’ ome — ” Mary, who would not hear 
any more, got up hastily, and took the hand of 
her new protectress, and kissed her, partly out 
of gratitude and kindness, partly to stop her 
mouth, and prevent the saying gf something 
which it might have been still more difficult to 
support. “You are a real lady yourself, dear 
Mrs. Turner,” she cried. (And this notwith- 
standing the one deficient letter ; but many 
people who are much more dignified than Mrs. 
Turner — people who behave themselves very 
well in every other respect — say “ ’ ome.”) 

“Oh, my dear, I don’t make any pretensions,” 
the good woman cried, but with a little shock of 
pleasure which brought the tears to her eyes. 

And then the story was told. Connie had 
seen the lady walk up-stairs, and had thought no 
harm. The child supposed it was some one be- 
longing to the house. She had gone into the room 
which was now Connie’s room ; but as that had a 
second door, there was no suspicion caused by 
the fact that she was not found there a little time 
after, when the child told her mother what she 
had seen. After this, Connie had seen the same 


OLD LADY MARY. 


97 


lady several times, and once had met her face to 
face. The child declared that she was not at all 
afraid. She was a pretty old lady, with white 
hair and dark eyes. She looked a little sad, but 
smiled when Connie stopped and stared at her, — 
not angry at all, but rather pleased, — and looked 
for a moment as if she would speak. That was 
all. Not a word about a ghost was said in Con- 
nie’s hearing. She had already told it all to the 
doctor, and he had pretended to consider which 
of the old ladies in the neighborhood this could 
be. In Mary’s mind, occupied as it was by so 
many important matters, there had been up to 
this time no great question about Connie’s appa- 
rition ; now she began to listen closely, not so 
much from real interest as from a perception that 
the doctor, who was her friend, did not want her 
to hear. This naturally aroused her attention at 
once. She listened to the child’s description 
with growing eagerness, all the more because the 
doctor opposed. “ Now that will do. Miss Con- 
nie,” he said ; “it is one of the old Miss Murch- 
isons, who are always so fond of finding out 
about their neighbors. I have no doubt at all 
on that subject. She wants to find you out in 
your pet naughtiness, whatever it is, and tell 
me.” 


7 


98 


OLD LADY MARY. 


“ I am sure it is not for that,” cried Connie. 

Oh, how can you be so disagreeable ? I know 
she is not a lady who would tell. Besides, she 
is not thinking at all about me. She was either 
looking for something she had lost, or, — oh, I 
don’t know what it was ! — and when she saw 
me she just smiled. She is not dressed like any 
of the people here. She had got no cloak on, 
or bonnet, or anything that is common, but a 
beautiful white shawl and a long dress, and it 
gives a little sweep when she walks, — oh no ! 
not like your rustling, mamma ; but all soft, like 
water, — and it looks like lace upon her head, 
tied here,” said Connie, putting her hands to 
her chin, in such a pretty, large, soft knot.” 
Mary had gradually risen as this description went 
on, starting a little at first, looking up, getting 
upon her feet. The color went altogether out of 
her face, — her eyes grew to twice their natural 
size. The doctor put out his hand without look- 
ing at her, and laid it on her arm with a strong, 
emphatic pressure. “ Just like some one you 
have seen a picture of,” he said. 

“ Oh no. I never saw a picture that was so 
pretty,” said the child. 

Doctor, why do you ask her any more ? don’f 
you see, don’t you see, the child has seen — ” 


OLD LADY MARY. 


99 


Miss Mary, for God’s sake, hold your tongue ; 
it is folly, you know. Now, my little girl, tell me. 
I know this old lady is the very image of that 
pretty old lady with the toys for good children, 
who was in the last Christmas number? ” 

“Oh!” said Connie, pausing- a little. “Yes, 
I remember ; it was a very pretty picture, — 
mamma put it up in the nursery. No, she is not 
like that, not at all, much prettier ; and then my 
lady is sorry about something, — except when 
she smiles at me. She has her hair put up like 
this, and this,” the child went on, twisting her 
own bright locks. 

“ Doctor, I can’t bear any more.” 

“ My dear, you are mistaken, it is all a delu- 
sion. She has seen a picture. I think now, 
Mrs. Turner, that my little patient had better 
run away and play. Take a good run through 
the woods. Miss Connie, with your brother, and 
I will send you some physic which will not be 
at all nasty, and we shall hear no more of your 
old lady. My dear Miss Vivian, if you will but 
hear reason ! I have known such cases a hun- 
dred times. The child has seen a picture, and 
it has taken possession of her imagination. She 
is a little below par, and she has a lively imagi- 
nation; and she has learned something from 


lOO 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Prentiss, though probably she does not remem- 
ber that. And there it is ! a few doses of qui- 
nine, and she will see visions no more.” 

Doctor,” cried Mary, “ how can you speak 
so to me? You dare not look me in the face. 
You know you dare not : as if you did not know 
as well as I do ! Oh, why does that child see 
her, and not me? ” 

“There it is,” he said, with a broken laugh. 
“Could anything show better that it is a mere 
delusion? Why, in the name of all that is reas- 
onable, should this stranger child see her, if it was 
anything, and not you?” 

Mrs. Turner looked from one to another with 
wondering eyes. “You know what it is?” she 
said. “ Oh, you know what itis? ” Doctor, doc- 
tor, is it because my Connie is so delicate? Is 
it a warning? Is it — ” 

“ Oh, for heaven’s sake ! You will drive me 
mad, you ladies. Is it this, and is it that? It is 
nothing, I tell you. The child is out of sortSy 
and she has seen some picture that has caught 
her fancy, — arid she thinks she sees — I ’ll send 
her a bottle,” he cried, jumping up, “ that will 
put an end to all that.” 

“ Doctor, don’t go away, tell me rather what I 
must do — if she is looking for something ! Oh, 


OLD LADY MARY. 


lOI 


doctor, think if she were unhappy, if she were 
kept out of her sweet rest ! ” 

‘‘Miss Mary, for God’s sake, be reasonable. 
You ought never to have heard a word.” 

“ Doctor, think ! if it should be anything we can 
do. Oh, tell me, tell me ! Don’t go away and 
leave me ; perhaps we can find out what it is.” 

“ I will have nothing to do with your findings 
out. It is mere delusion. Put them both to 
bed, Mrs. Turner ; put them all to bed ! — as if 
there was not trouble enough ! ” 

“ What is it? ” cried Connie’s mother ; “ is it a 
warning ! Oh, for the love of God, tell me, is 
that what comes before a death?” 

When they were all in this state of agitation, 
the vicar and his wife were suddenly shown into 
the room. Mrs. Bowyer’s eyes flew to Mary, 
but she was too well bred a woman not to pay 
her respects first to the lady of the house, and 
there were a number of politenesses exchanged, 
very breathlessly on Mrs. Turner’s part, before 
the. new-comers were free to show the real occa- 
sion of their visit. “ Oh, Mary, what did you 
mean by taking such a step all in a moment? 
How could you come here, of all places in the 
world ? And how could you leave me without a 
word ? ” the vicar’s wife said, with her lips against 


102 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Mary’s cheek. She had already perceived, with- 
out dwelling upon it, the excitement in which 
all the party were. This was said while the vic- 
ar was still making his bow to his new parishioner, 
who knew very well that her visitors had not 
intended to call ; for the Turners were dissenters, 
to crown all their misdemeanors, beside being 
city people and nouveaux riches. 

“ Don’t ask me any questions just now,” said 
Mary, clasping almost hysterically her friend’s 
hand. 

‘ ‘^It was providential. Come and hear what 
the child has seen.” Mrs. Turner, though she 
was so anxious, was too polite not to make a 
fuss about getting chairs for all her visitors. 
She postponed her own trouble to this neces- 
sity, and trembling, sought the most comfortable 
seat for Mrs. Bowyer, the largest and most 
imposing for the vicar himself. When she had 
established them in a little circle, and done her 
best to draw Mary, too, into a chair, she sat down 
quietly, her mind divided between the cares of 
courtesy and the alarms of an anxious mother. 
Mary stood at the table and waited till the com- 
motion was over. The new comers thought she 
was going to explain her conduct in leaving 
them; and Mrs. Bowyer, at least, who was 


OLD LADY MARY. 


103 


critical in point of manners, shivered a little, 
wondering if perhaps (though she could not find 
it in her heart to blame Mary) her proceedings 
were in perfect taste. 

The little girl,” Mary said, beginning abrupt- 
ly. She had been standing by the table, her lips 
apart, her countenance utterly pale, her mind 
evidently too much absorbed to notice anything. 
‘‘ The little girl has seen several times a lady 
going up-stairs. Once she met her and saw her 
face, and the lady smiled at her ; but her face 
was sorrowful, and the child thought she was 
looking for something. The lady was old, with 
white hair done up upon her forehead, and lace 
upon her head. She was dressed — ” here 
Mary’s voice began to be interrupted from time 
to time by a brief sob — “in a long dress that 
made a soft sound when she walked, and a white 
shawl, and the lace tied under her chin in a large 
soft knot — ” 

“ Mary, Mary ! ” Mrs. Bowyer had risen and 
stood behind the girl, in whose slender throat 
the climbing sorrow was almost visible, support- 
ing her, trying to stop her. “ Mary, Mary ! ” 
she cried ; “ oh, my darling, what are you 
thinking of? Francis ! doctor ! make her 
stop, make her stop. ” 


104 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Why should she stop ? ” said Mrs. Turner, 
rising, too, in her agitation. Oh, is it a warn- 
ing, is it a warning ? for my child has seen it, — 
Connie has seen it.” 

“ Listen to me, all of you,” said Mary, with 
an effort. You all know — who that is. And 
she has seen her, — the little girl — ” 

Now the others looked at each other, ex- 
changing a startled look. 

My dear people,” cried the doctor, the 
case is not the least unusual. No, no, Mrs. 
Turner, it is no warning, — it is nothing of the 
sort. Look here, Bowyer; you’ll believe me. 
The child is very nervous and sensitive. She 
has evidently seen a picture somewhere of our 
dear old friend. She has heard the story some- 
how, — oh, perhaps in some garbled version 
from Prentiss, or — of course they’ve all been 
talking of it. And the child is one of those 
creatures with its nerves all on the surface, — 
and a little below par in health, in need of iron 
and quinine, and all that sort of thing. I’ve 
seen a hundred such cases,” cried the doctor, — 
“ a thousand such ; but now, of course, we ’ll 
have a fine story made of it, now that it ’s come 
into the ladies’ hands.” 

He was much excited with this long speech ; 


OLD LADY MARY. 


but it cannot be said that any one paid much 
attention to him. Mrs. Bowyer was holding 
Mary in her arms, uttering little cries and sobs 
over her, and looking anxiously at her husband. 
The vicar sat down suddenly in his chair, with 
the air of a man who has judgment to deliver 
without the least idea what to say ; while Mary, 
freeing herself unconsciously from her friend’s 
restraining embrace, stood facing them all with a 
sort of trembling defiance ; and Mrs. Turner 
kept on explaining nervously that, — “no, no, 
her Connie was not excitable, was not over- 
sensitive, had never known what a delusion was.” 

“This is very strange,” the vicar said. 

“ Oh, Mr. Bowyer,” cried Mary, “ tell me 
what I am to do I — think if she cannot rest, if 
she is not happy, she that was so good to every- 
body, that never could bear to see any one in 
trouble. Oh, tell me, tell me what I am to do ! 
It is you that have disturbed her with all you 
have been saying. Oh, what can I do, what can 
I do to give her rest?” 

“ My dear Mary ! my dear Mary ! ” they all 
cried, in different tones of consternation; and 
for a few minutes no one could speak. Mrs. 
Bowyer, as was natural, said something, being 
unable to endure the silence ; but neither she 


io6 


OLD LADY MARY. 


nor any of the others knew what it was she said. 
When it was evident that the vicar must speak, 
all were silent, waiting for him; and though it 
now became imperative that something in the 
shape of a judgment must be delivered, yet he 
was as far as ever from knowing what to say. 

“ Mary,” he said, with a little tremulousness of 
voice, “it is quite natural that you should ask 
me ; but, my dear, I am not at all prepared to 
answer. I think you know that the doctor, who 
ought to know best about such matters — ” 

“ Nay, not I. I only know about the physical , 
the other, — if there is another, — that ’s your 
concern.” 

“Who ought to know best,” repeated Mr. 
Bowyer ; “ for every body will tell you, my dear, 
that the mind is so dependent upon the body. I 
suppose he must be right. I suppose it is just 
the imagination of a nervous child working upon 
the data which have been given, — the picture ; 
and then, as you justly remind me, all we have 
been saying — ” 

“ How could the child know what we have 
been saying, Francis?” 

“ Connie has heard nothing that any one has 
been saying ; and there is no picture.” 

“My dear lady, you hear what the doctor 


OLD LADY MARY. 


107 

says. If there is no picture, and she has heard 
nothing, I suppose, then, your premises are gone, 
and the conclusion falls to the ground.” 

‘^What does it matter about premises?” cried 
the vicar’s wife ; ** here is something dreadful 
that has happened. Oh, what nonsense that is 
about imagination; children have no imagina- 
tion. A dreadful thing has happened. In 
heaven’s name, Francis, tell this poor child what 
she is to do.” 

“ My dear,” said the vicar again, you are 
asking me to believe in purgatory, — nothing 
less. You are asking me to contradict the 
church’s teaching. Mary, you must compose 
yourself. You must wait till this excitement has 
passed away.” 

I can see by her eyes that she did not sleep 
last night,” the doctor said, relieved. “ We shall 
have her seeing visions too, if we don’t take care.” 

“ And, my dear Mary,” said the vicar, “ if you 
will think of it, it is derogatory to the dignity of 
— of our dear friends who have passed away. 
How can we suppose that one of the blessed 
would come down from heaven, and walk about 
her own house, which she had just left, and show 
herself to a — to a — little child who had never 
seen her before.” 


I08 OLD LADY MARY. 

‘^Impossible/’ said the doctor. told you 
so; a stranger — that had no connection with 
her, knew nothing about her ^ ” . 

“Instead of,” said the vicar, with a slight 
tremor, “ making herself known, if that was per- 
mitted, to — to me, for example, or our friend 
here.” 

“That sounds reasonable, Mary,” said Mrs.. 
Bowyer ; “ don’t you think so, my dear ? If she. 
had come to one of us, or to yourself, my dar- 
ling, I should never have wondered, after all that 
has happened. But to this little child — ” 

“ Whereas there is nothing more likely — 
more consonant with all the teachings of science 
— than that the little thing should have this 
hallucination, of which you ought never to have 
heard a word. You are the very last person — ” 

“ That is true,”^ said the vicar, “ and all the 
associations of the place must be overwhelming. 
My dear, we must take her away with us. Mrs. 
Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be 
good for Mary to be here.” 

“ No, no ! I never thought so,” said Mrs. 
Bowyer. “ I never intended — dear Mrs. Tur- 
ner, we all appreciate your motives. I hope you 
will let us see much of you, and that we may be- 
come very good friends. But Mary — it is her 


OLD LADY MARY. 


109 

first grief, don’t you know?” said the vicar’s 
wife, with the tears in her eyes ; “she has always 
been so much cared for, so much thought of all 
her life — and then all at once ! You will not 
think that we misunderstand your kind motives ; 
but it is more than she can bear. She made up 
her mind in a hurry, without thinking. You 
must not be annoyed if we take her away.” 

Mrs. Turner had been looking from one to 
another while this dialogue went on. She said 
now, a little wounded, “I wished only to do 
what was kind; but, perhaps I was thinking 
most of my own child. Miss Vivian must do 
what she thinks best.” 

“You are all kind — too kind,” Mary cried; 
“ but no one must say another word, please. 
Unless Mrs. Turner should send me away, until 
I know what this all means, it is my place to 
stay here.” 


no 


OLD LADY MARY, 


IX. 


It was Lady Mary who had come into the 
vicarage that afternoon when Mrs. Bowyer sup- 
posed some one had called. She wandered 
about to a great many places in these days, but 
always returned to the scenes in which her life 
had been passed, and where alone her work 
could be done, if it could be done at all. She 
came in and listened while the tale of her own 
carelessness and heedlessness was told, and stood 
by while her favorite was taken to another wo- 
man’s bosom for comfort, and heard everything 
and saw everything. She was used to it by this 
time ; but to be nothing is hard, even when you 
are accustomed to it ; and though she knew that 
they would not hear her, what could she do but 
cry out to them as she stood there unregarded ? 
“ Oh, have pity upon me ! ” Lady Mary said ; 
and the pang in her heart was so great that the 
very atmosphere was stirred, and the air could 
scarcely contain her and the passion of her 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Ill 


endeavor to make herself known, but thrilled 
like a harp-string to her cry. Mrs. Bowyer heard 
the jar and tingle in the inanimate world, but 
she thought only that it was some charitable 
visitor who had come in, and gone softly away 
again at the sound of tears. 

And if Lady Mary could not make herself 
known to the poor cottagers who had loved her, 
or to the women who wept for her loss while 
they blamed her, how was she to reveal herself 
and her secret to the men who, if they had seen 
her, would have thought her an hallucination? 
Yes, she tried all, and even went a long jour- 
ney over land and sea to visit the earl, who 
was -her heir, and awake in him an interest in 
her child. And she lingered about all these 
people in the silence of the night, and tried to 
move them in dreams, since she could not move 
them waking. It is more easy for one who is 
no more of this world, to be seen and heard in 
sleep ; for then those who are still in the flesh 
stand on the borders of the unseen, and see and 
hear things which, waking, they do not under- 
stand. But, alas ! when they woke, this poor 
wanderer discovered that her friends remem- 
bered no more what she had said to them in 
their dreams. 


II2 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Presently, however, when she found Mary es- 
tablished in her old home, in her old room, there 
came to her a new hope. For there is nothing 
in the world so hard to believe, or to be con- 
vinced of, as that no effort, no device, will ever 
make you known and visible to those you love. 
Lady Mary being little altered in her character, 
though so much in her being, still believed that 
if she could but find the way, in a moment, in 
the twinkling of an eye, all would be revealed and 
understood. She went to Mary’s room with this 
new hope strong in her heart. When they were 
alone together in that nest of comfort which she 
had herself made beautiful for her child, — two 
hearts so full of thought for each other, — what 
was there in earthly bonds which could prevent 
them from meeting? She went into the silent 
room, which was so familiar and dear, and waited 
like a mother long separated from her child, with 
a faint doubt trembling on the surface of her 
mind, yet a quaint, joyful confidence underneath 
in the force of nature. A few words would be 
enough, — a moment, and all would be right. 
And then she pleased herself with fancies of how, 
when that was done, she would whisper to her 
darling what has never been told to flesh and 
blood j and so go home proud, and satisfied, and 


OLD LADY MARY. 


happy in the accomplishment of all she had 
hoped. 

Mary came in with her candle in her hand, 
and closed the door between her and all external 
things. She looked round wistful with that strange 
consciousness which she had already experienced, 
that some one was there. The other stood so 
close to her that the girl could not move without 
touching her. She held up her hands, imploring, 
to the child of her love. She called to her, 

Mary, Mary ! ” putting her hands upon her, 
and gazed into her face with an intensity and 
anguish of eagerness which might have drawn the 
stars out of the sky. And a strange tumult was 
in Mary’s bosom. She stood looking blankly 
round her, like one who is blind with open eyes, 
and saw nothing; and strained her ears like a 
deaf man, but heard nothing. All was silence, 
vacancy, an empty world about her. She sat 
down at her little table, with a heavy sigh. “ The 
child can see her, but she will not come to me,” 
Mary said, and wept. 

Then Lady Mary turned away with a heart full 
of despair. She went quickly from the house, 
out into the night. The pang of her disappoint- 
ment was so keen, that she could not endure it. 
She remembered what had been said to her in 
8 


OLD LADY MARY. 


1 14 

the place from whence she came, and how she 
had been entreated to be patient and wait. Oh, 
had she but waited and been patient ! She sat 
down upon the ground, a soul forlorn, outside of 
life, outside of all things, lost in a world which 
had no place for her. The moon shone, but she 
made no shadow in it; the rain fell upon her, 
but did not hurt her ; the little night breeze blew 
without finding any resistance in her. She said 
to herself, “ I have failed. What am I, that I 
should do what they all said was impossible ? It 
was my pride, because I have had my own way all 
my life. But now I have no way and no place 
on earth, and what I have to tell them will never, 
never be known. Oh, my little Mary, a servant 
in her own house ! And a word would make it 
right ! — but never, never can she hear that 
word. I am wrong to say never ; she will know 
when she is in heaven. She will not live to be 
old and foolish, like me. She will go up there 
early, and then she will know. But I, what will 
become of me ? — for I am nothing here, I can- 
not go back to my own place.” 

A little moaning wind rose up suddenly in the ■ 
middle of the dark night, and carried a faint 
wail, like the voice of some one lost, to the 
windows of the great house. It woke the chil- 


OLD LADY MARY. 


II5 

dren and Mary, who opened her eyes quickly in 
the dark, wondering if perhaps now the vision 
might come to her. But the vision had come 
when she could not see it, and now returned no 


more. 


ii6 


OLD LADY MARY. 


X. 

On the other side, however, visions which had 
nothing sacred in them began to be heard of, and 
“ Connie’s ghost,” as it was called in the house, 
had various vulgar effects. A housemaid be- 
came hysterical, and announced that she too 
had seen the lady, of whom she gave a descrip- 
tion, exaggerated from Connie’s, which all the 
household were ready to swear she had never 
heard. The lady, whom Connie had only seen 
passing, went to Betsey’s room in the middle of 
the night, and told her, in a hollow and terrible 
voice, that she could not rest, opening a series 
of communications by which it was evident all 
the secrets of the unseen world would soon be 
disclosed. And following upon this, there came 
a sort of panic in the house ; noises were heard 
in various places, sounds of footsteps pacing, 
and of a long robe sweeping about the passages ; 
and Lady Mary’s costumes, and the head-dress 
which was so peculiar, which all her friends 
had recognized in Connie’s description, grew 
into something portentous under the heavier 


OLD LADY MARY. 


II7 

hand of the foot-boy and the kitchen-maid. 
Mrs. Prentiss, who had remained, as a special 
favor to the new people, was deeply indignant 
and outraged by this treatment of her mistress. 
She appealed to Mary with mingled anger and 
tears. 

“I would have sent the hussy away at an 
hour’s notice, if I had the power in my hands,” 
she cried, but. Miss Mary, it ’s easily seen who 
is a real lady and who is not. Mrs. Turner inter- 
feres herself in everything, though she likes it to 
be supposed that she has a housekeeper.” 

Dear Prentiss, you must not say Mrs. Turner 
is not a lady. She has far more delicacy of feel- 
ing than many ladies,” cried Mary. 

Yes, Miss Mary, dear, I allow that she is 
very nice to you ; but who could help that ? and 
to hear my lady’s name — that might have her 
faults, but who was far above anything of the 
sort — in every mouth, and her costume, that 
they don’t know how to describe, and to think 
that she would go and talk to the like of Betsy 
Barnes about what is on her mind ! I think 
sometimes I shall break my heart, or else throw 
up my place. Miss Mary,” Prentiss said, with 
tears. 

“ Oh, don’t do that ; oh, don’t leave me, Pren- 


Il8 OLD LADY MARY. 

tiss \ ” Mary said, with an involuntary cry of dis- 
may. 

Not if you mind, not if you mind, dear,” the 
housekeeper cried. And then she drew close to 
the young lady with an anxious look. “You 
have n’t seen anything ? ” she said. “ That would 
be only natural. Miss Mary. I could well under- 
stand she couldn’t rest in her grave, — if she 
came and told it all to you.” 

“ Prentiss, be silent,” cried Mary ; “ that ends 
everything between you and me, if you say such 
a word. There has been too much said al- 
ready, — oh, far too much ! as if I only loved 
her for what she was to leave me.” 

“ I did not mean that, dear,” said Prentiss ; 
“ but—” 

“There is no but ; and everything she did was 
right,” the girl cried with vehemence. She shed 
hot and bitter tears over this wrong which all her 
friends did to Lady Mary’s memory. “I am 
glad it was so,” she said to herself when she was 
alone, with youthful extravagance. “ I am glad 
it was so ; for now no one can think that I loved 
her foi anything but herself.” 

The household, however, was agitated by all 
these rumors and inventions. Alice, Connie’s 
elder sister, declined to sleep any longer in that 


OLD LADY MARY. 


II9 

which began to be called the haunted room. 
She, too, began to think she saw something, she 
could not tell what, gliding out of the room as it 
began to get dark, and to hear sighs and moans 
in the corridors. The servants, who all wanted to 
leave, and the villagers, who avoided the grounds 
after nightfall, spread the rumor far and near 
that the house was haunted. 


120 


OLD LADY MARY. 


XI. 

In the meantime, Connie herself was silent, and 
saw no more of the lady. Her attachment to 
Mary grew into one of those visionary passions 
which little girls so often form for young women. 
She followed her so-called governess wherever 
she went, hanging upon her arm when she could, 
holding her dress when no other hold was possi- 
ble, — following her everywhere, like her shadow. 
The vicarage, jealous and annoyed at first, and 
all the neighbors indignant too, to see Mary trans- 
formed into a dependant of the city family, held 
out as long as possible against the good-nature 
of Mrs. Turner, and were revolted by the specta- 
cle of this child claiming poor Mary’s attention 
wherever she moved. But by-and-by all these 
strong sentiments softened, as was natural. The 
only real drawback was, that amid all these agita- 
tions Mary lost her bloom. She began to droop 
and grow pale under the observation of the watch- 
ful doctor, who had never been otherwise than 
dissatisfied with the new position of affairs, and 
betook himself to Mrs. Bowyer for sympathy 


OLD LADY MARY. 


I2I 


and information. Did you ever see a girl so fal- 
len off? ” he said. “ Fallen off, doctor ! I think 
she is prettier and prettier every day.” “ Oh,” the 
poor man cried, with a strong breathing of impa- 
tience, “ You ladies think of nothing, but pretti- 
ness ! — was I talking of prettiness ? She must 
have lost a stone since she went back there. It 
is all very well to laugh,” the doctor added, grow- 
ing red with supppressed anger, “ but I can tell 
you that is the true test. That little Connie Tur- 
ner is as well as possible ; she has handed over 
her nerves to Mary Vivian. I wonder now if she 
ever talks to you on that subject.” 

^^Who? little Connie?” 

‘‘ Of course I mean Miss Vivian, Mrs. Bowyer. 
Don’t you know the village is all in a tremble 
about the ghost at the Great House? ” 

Oh yes, I know, and it is very strange. I 
can’t help thinking, doctor, — ” 

We had better not discuss that subject. Of 
course •! don’t put a moment’s faith in any such 
nonsense. But girls are full of fancies. I want 
you to find out for me whether she has begun to 
think she sees anything. She looks like it ; and 
if something is n’t done she will soon do so, if not 
now.” 

^‘Then you do think there is something to 


122 


OLD LADY MARY. 


see,” said Mrs Bowyer, clasping her hands ; 

that has always been my opinion : what so 
natural — ? ” 

“ As that Lady Mary, the greatest old aristocrat 
in the world, should come and make private 
revelations to Betsey Barnes, the under house- 
maid—?” said the doctor, with a sardonic 
grin. 

“ I don’t mean that, doctor ; but if she could 
not rest in her grave, poor old lady — ” 

‘‘You think, then, my dear,” said the vicar, 
“that Lady Mary, an old friend, who was as 
young in her mind as any of us, lies body and 
soul in that old dark hole of a vault?” 

“ How you talk, Francis ! what can a woman 
say between you horrid men? I say if she 
could n’t rest, — wherever she is, — because of 
leaving Mary destitute, it would be only natural, 
— and I should think the more of her for it,” 
Mrs. Bowyer cried. 

The vicar had a gentle professional laugh over 
the confusion of his wife’s mind. But the doctor 
took the matter more seriously. “ Lady Mary is 
safely buried and done with, I am not thinking 
of her,” he said; “but I am thinking of Mary 
Vivian’s senses, which will not stand this much 
longer. Try and find out from her if she sees 


OLD LADY MARY. 


123 


anything : if she has come to that, whatever she 
says we must have her out of there.” 

But Mrs. Bowyer had nothing to report when 
this conclave of friends met again. Mary would 
not allow that she had seen anything. She grew 
paler every day, her eyes grew larger, but she 
made no confession ; and Connie bloomed and 
grew, and met no more old ladies upon the 
stairs. 


124 


OLD LADY MARY. 


XII. 

The days passed on, and no new event oc- 
curred in this little history. It came to be sum- 
mer, — balmy and green, — and everything around 
the old house was delightful, and its beautiful 
rooms became more pleasant than ever in the 
long days and soft brief nights. Fears of the 
earl’s return and of the possible end of the 
Turners’ tenancy began to disturb the household, 
but no one so much as Mary, who felt herself to 
cling as she had never done before to the old 
house. She had never got over the impression 
that a secret presence, revealed to no one else, 
was continually near her, though she saw no one. 
And her health was greatly affected by this 
visionary double life. 

This was the state of affairs on a certain soft 
wet day when the family were all within doors. 
Connie had exhausted all her means of amuse- 
ment in the morning. When the afternoon came, 
with its long, dull, uneventful hours, she had 


OLD LADY MARY. 


125 


nothing better to do than to fling herself upon 
Miss Vivian, upon whom she had a special claim. 
She came to Mary’s room, disturbing the strange 
quietude of that place, and amused herself look- 
ing over all the trinkets,and ornaments that were 
to be found there, all of which were associated 
to Mary with her godmother. Connie tried on 
the bracelets and brooches which Mary in her 
deep mourning had not worn, and asked a hun- 
dred questions. The answer which had to be so 
often repeated, “That was given to me by my 
godmother,” at last called forth the child’s remark, 
“ How fond your godmother must have been of 
you. Miss Vivian ! She seems to have given 
you everything — ” 

“ Everything ! ” cried Mary, with a full heart. 

“And yet they all say she was not kind 
enough,” said little Connie, — “what do they 
mean by that? for you seem to love her very 
much still, though she is dead. Can one go on 
loving people when they are dead?” 

“ Oh yes, and better than ever,” said Mary ; 
“ for often you do not know how you loved 
them, or what they were to you, till they are 
gone away.” 

Connie gave her governess a hug and said, 
“ Why did not she leave you all her money. Miss 


126 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Vivian? everybody says she was wicked and 
unkind to die without — ” 

My dear,” cried Mary, do not repeat what 
ignorant people say, because it is not true.” 

“ But mamma said it. Miss Vivian.” 

‘‘ She does not know, Connie, — you must not 
say it. I will tell your mamma she must not 
say it ; for nobody can know so well as I do, — 
and it is not true. — ” 

“ But they say,” cried Connie, that that is 
why she can’t rest in her grave. You must 
have heard. Poor old lady, they say she cannot 
rest in her grave, because — ” 

Mary seized the child in her arms with a pres- 
sure that hurt Connie. “ You must not ! you 
must not ! ” she cried, in a sort of panic. Was 
she afraid that some one might hear? She gave 
Connie a hurried kiss, and turned her face 
away, looking out into the vacant room. It 
is not true ! it is not true ! ” she cried, with 
a great excitement and horror, as if to stay a 
wound. She was always good, and like an angel 
to me. She is with the angels. She is with 
God. She cannot be disturbed by anything — 
anything ! Oh, let us never say, or think, or 
imagine — ” Mary cried. Her cheeks burned, 
her eyes were full of tears. It seemed to her 


OLD LADY MARY. 


127 


that something of wonder and anguish and dis- 
may was in the room round her, — as if some 
one unseen had heard a bitter reproach, an 
accusation undeserved, which must wound to 
the very heart. 

Connie struggled a little in that too tight hold. 
‘^Are you frightened. Miss Vivian? What are* 
you frightened for? No one can hear; and if 
you mind it so much, I will never say it again.” 

You must never, never say it again. There 
is nothing I mind so much,” Mary said. 

Oh,” said Connie, with mild surprise. Then, 
as Mary’s hold relaxed, she put her arms round 
her beloved companion’s neck. will tell 

them all you don’t like it. I will tell them they 
must not — oh ! ” cried Connie again, in a quick 
astonished voice. She clutched Mary round the 
neck, returning the violence of the grasp which* 
had hurt her, and with the other hand pointed to 
the door. The lady ! the lady ! oh, come and 
see where she is going ! ” Connie cried. 

Mary felt as if the child in her vehemence 
lifted her from her seat. She had no sense that 
her own limbs or her own will carried her, in the 
impetuous rush with which Connie flew. The 
blood mounted to her head. She felt a heat 
and throbbing as if her spine were on fire. 


128 


OLD LADY MARY. 


Connie holding by her skirts, pushing her on, 
went along the corridor to the other door, now 
deserted, of Lady Mary’s room. There, there ! 
don’t you see her? She is going in 1” the child 
cried, and rushed on, clinging to Mary, dragging 
her on, her light hair streaming, her little white 
•dress waving. 

Lady Mary’s room was unoccupied and cold, 
— cold, though it was summer, with the chill 
that rests in uninhabited apartments. The 
blinds were drawn down over the windows; a 
sort of blank whiteness, greyness, was in the 
place, which no one ever entered. The child 
rushed on with eager gestures, crying, “ Look ! 
look ! ” turning her lively head from side to 
side. Mary, in a still and passive expectation, 
seeing nothing, looking mechanically to where 
Connie told her to look, moving like a creature 
in a dream, against her will, followed. There 
was nothing to be seen. The blank, the vacancy, 
went to her heart. She no longer thought of Con- 
nie or her vision. She felt the emptiness with a 
desolation such as she had never felt before. 

She loosed her arm with something like im- 
patience from the child’s close clasp. For 
months she had not entered the room which 
was associated with so much of her life. Connie 


OLD LADY MARY. 


129 


and her cries and warnings passed from her 
mind like the stir of a bird or a fly. Mary felt 
herself alone with her dead, alone with her life, 
with all that had been and that never could be 
again. Slowly, without knowing what she did, 
she sank upon her knees. She raised her face 
in the blank of desolatioixabout her to the un- 
seen heaven. Unseen ! miseen ! whatever we 
may do, God above us, and those who have 
gone from us, and He who has taken them, who 
has redeemed them, who is ours and theirs, our 
only hope, — but all unseen, unseen, concealed 
as much by the blue skies as by the dull blank of 
that roof. Her heart ached and cried into the 
unknown. “ O God,” she cried, “ I do not know 
where she is, but Thou art everywhere. O God, 
let her know that I have never blamed her, 
never wished it otherwise, never ceased to love 
her, and thank her, and bless her. God ! God ! ” 
cried Mary, with a great and urgent cry, as 
if it were a man’s name. She knelt there for a 
moment before her senses failed her, her eyes 
shining as if they would burst from their sockets, 
her lips dropping apart, her countenance like 
marble. 


9 


130 


OLD. LADY MARY. 


XIIL 

And she was standing there all the time,” 
said Connie, crying and telling her little tale after 
Mary had been carried away, — standing with 
her hand upon that cabinet, looking and look- 
ing, oh, as if she wanted to say something and 
couldn’t. Why couldn’t she, mamma? Oh, 
Mr. Bowyer, why could n’t she, if she wanted so 
much? Why would n’t God let her speak? ” 


XIV. 

Mary had a long illness, and hovered on the 
verge of death. She said a great deal in her 
wanderings about some one who had looked at 
her. For a moment, a moment,” she would 
cry ; “ only a moment ! and I had so much to 
say.” But as she got better, nothing was said to 
her about this face she had seen. And perhaps 
it was only the suggestion of some feverish dream. 


OLD LADY MARY. 


She was taken away, and was a long time getting 
up her strength ; and in the meantime the Tur- 
ners insisted that the chains should be thoroughly 
seen to, which were not all in a perfect state. 
And the earl coming to see the place, took a 
fancy to it, and determined to keep it in his own 
hands. He was a friendly person, and his ideas 
of decoration were quite different from those of 
his grandmother. He gave away a great deal of 
her old furniture, and sold the rest. . 

Among the articles given away was the Italian 
cabinet, which the vicar had always had a fancy 
for j and naturally it had not been in the vicar- 
age a day, before the boys insisted on finding out 
the way of opening the secret drawer. And 
there the paper was found, in the most natural 
way, without any trouble or mystery at all. 


132 


OLD LADY MARY. 


XV. 

They all gathered to see the wanderer coming 
back. She was not as she. had been when she 
went away. Her face, which had been so easy, 
was worn with trouble ; her eyes were deep with 
things unspeakable. Pity and knowledge were 
in the lines, which time had not made. It was 
a great event in that place to see one come back 
who did not come by the common way. She 
was received by the great officer who had given 
her permission to go, and her companions who 
had received her at the first all came forward, 
wondering, to hear what she had to say ; because 
it only occurs to those wanderers who have gone 
back to earth of their own will, to return when 
they have accomplished what they wished, or it 
is judged above that there is nothing possible 
more. Accordingly, the question was on all their 
lips, “ You have set the wrong right, — you have 
-done what you desired?” 

“ Oh,” she said, stretching out her hands, 
how well one is in one’s own place ! how 
blessed to be at home ! I have seen the trouble 


OLD LADY MARY. 


133 


and sorrow in the earth till my heart is sore, and 
sometimes I have been near to die.” 

‘‘But that is impossible,” said the man who 
had loved her. 

“ If it had not been impossible, I should have 
died,” she said. “ I have stood among people 
who loved me, and they have not seen me nor 
known me, nor heard my cry. I have been 
outcast from all life, for I belonged to none. I 
have longed for you all, and my heart has failed 
me. Oh how lonely it is in the world, when you 
are a wanderer, and can be known of none — ” 

“You were warned,” said he who was in 
authority, “ that it was more bitter than death.” 

“What is death?” she said; and no one 
made any reply. Neither did any one venture 
to ask her again whether she had been success- 
ful in her mission. But at last, when the warmth 
of her appointed home had melted the ice about 
her heart, she smiled once more and spoke. 

“ The little children knew me. They were not 
afraid of me ; they held out their arms. And 
God’s dear and innocent creatures — ” She wept 
a few tears, which were sweet after the ice tears 
she had shed upon the earth. And then some 
one, more bold than the rest, asked again, “ And 
did you accomplish what you wished ? ” 


134 


OLD LADY MARY. 


She had come to herself by this time, and the 
dark lines were melting from her face. I am 
forgiven,” she said, with a low cry of happiness. 
‘‘ She whom I wronged, loves me and blessed 
me • and we saw each other face to face. I 
know nothing more.” 

‘‘There is no more,” said all together. For 
everything is included in pardon and love. 




THE OPEN DOOR, 

AND 

THE PORTRAIT. 






THE OPEN DOOR. 


Inscribed to a Dear and Happy Memory. 
E. B. i88i. 


T TOOK the house of Brentwood on my re- 
turn from India in 1 8 — , for the temporary 
accommodation of my family, until I could find 
a permanent home for them. It had many ad- 
vantages which made it peculiarly appropriate. 
It was within reach of Edinburgh ; and my boy 
Roland, whose education had been consider- 
ably neglected, could go in and out to school ; 
which was thought to be better for him than 
either leaving home altogether or staying there 
always with a tutor. The first of these expedi- 
ents would have seemed preferable to me ; the 
second commended itself to his mother. The 
doctor, like a judicious man, took the midway 
between. Put him on his pony, and let him 
ride into the High School every morning; it 
will do him all the good in the world,” Dr. Sim- 
son said ; “ and when it is bad weather, there is 


6 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


the train.” His mother accepted this solution 
of the difficulty more easily than I could have 
hoped ; and our pale-faced boy, who had never 
known anything more invigorating than Simla, 
began to encounter the brisk breezes of the 
North in the subdued severity of the month of 
May. Before the time of the vacation in July 
we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to 
acquire something of the brown and ruddy com- 
plexion of his schoolfellows. The English sys- 
tem did not commend itself to Scotland in these 
days. There was no little Eton at Fettes; nor 
do I think, if there had been, that a genteel 
exotic of that class would have tempted either 
my wife or me. The lad was doubly precious to 
us, being the only one left us of many ; and he 
was fragile in body, we believed, and deeply 
sensitive in mind. To keep him at home, and 
yet to send him to school, — to combine the 
advantages of the two systems, — seemed to be 
everything that could be desired. The two girls 
also found at Brentwood everything they wanted. 
They were near enough to Edinburgh to have 
masters and lessons as many as they required 
for completing that never-ending education which 
the young people seem to require nowadays. 
Their mother married me when she was younger 


THE OPEN DOOR, 


7 


than Agatha ; and I should like to see them im- 
prove upon their mother ! I myself was then 
no more than twenty-five, — an age at which I 
see the young fellows now groping about them, 
with no notion what they are going to do with 
their lives. However, I suppose every genera- 
tion has a conceit of itself which elevates it, in 
its own opinion, above that which comes after 
it. 

Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy 
slope of country — one of the richest in Scotland 
— which lies between the Pentland Hills and the 
Firth. In clear weather you could see the blue 
gleam — like a bent bow, embracing the wealthy 
fields and scattered houses — of the great estuary 
on one side of you ; and on the other the blue 
heights, not gigantic like those we had been used 
to, but just high enough for all the glories of the 
atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflec- 
tions, which give to a hilly country an interest 
and a charm which nothing else can emulate. 
Edinburgh — with its two lesser heights, the Castle 
and the Calton Hill, its spires and towers pierc- 
ing through the smoke, and Arthur’s Seat lying 
crouched behind, like a guardian no longer very 
needful, taking his repose beside the well-beloved 
charge, which is now, so to speak, able to take 


8 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


care of itself without him — lay at our right hand. 
From the lawn and drawing-room windows we 
could see all these varieties of landscape. The 
color was sometimes a little chilly, but sometimes, 
also, as animated and full of vicissitude as a 
drama. I was never tired of it. Its color and 
freshness revived the eyes which had grown 
weary of arid plains and blazing skies. It was 
always cheery, and fresh, and full of repose. 

. The village of Brentwood lay almost under the 
house, on the other side of the deep little ravine, 
down which a stream — which ought to have 
been a lovely, wild, and frolicsome little river — 
flowed between its rocks and trees. The river, 
like so many in that district, had, however, in its 
earlier life been sacrificed to trade, and was grimy 
with paper-making. But this did not affect our 
pleasure in it so much as I have known it to 
affect other streams. Perhaps our water was more 
rapid ; perhaps less clogged with dirt and refuse. 
Our side of the dell was charmingly accidente^ and 
clothed with fine trees, through which various 
paths wound down to the river- side and to the vil- 
lage bridge which crossed the stream. The village 
lay in the hollow, and climbed, with very prosaic 
houses, the other side. Village architecture does 
not flourish in Scotland. The blue slates and the 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


9 


gray stone are sworn foes to the picturesque ; 
and though Ido not, for my own part, dislike the 
interior of an old-fashioned pewed and galleried 
church, with its little family settlements on all 
sides, the square box outside, with its bit of a 
spire like a handle to lift it by, is not an improve- 
ment to the landscape. Still a cluster of houses 
on differing elevations, with scraps of garden 
coming in between, a hedgerow with clothes laid 
out to dry, the opening of a street with its rural 
sociability, the women at their doors, the slow 
wagon lumbering along, gives a centre to the 
landscape. It was cheerful to look at, and con- 
venient in a hundred ways. Within ourselves we 
had walks in plenty, the glen being always beauti- 
ful in all its phases, whether the woods were green 
in the spring or ruddy in the autumn. In the 
park which surrounded the house were the ruins 
of the former mansion of Brentwood, — a much 
smaller and less important house than the solid 
Georgian edifice wliich we inhabited. The ruins 
were picturesque, however, and gave importance 
to the place.^ Even we, who were but temporary 
tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they some- 
how reflected a certain consequence upon our- 
selves. The old building had the remains of a tower, 
— an indistinguishable mass of mason-work, over- 


lO 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


grown with ivy ; and the shells of walls attached 
to this were half filled up with soil. I had never 
examined it closely, I am ashamed to say. There 
was a large room, or what had been a large room, 
with the lower part of the windows still existing, 
on the principal floor, and underneath other 
windows, which were perfect, though half filled 
up with fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth 
of brambles and chance growths of all kinds. 
This was the oldest part of all. At a little dis- 
tance were some very commonplace and disjoint- 
ed fragments of building, one of them suggesting 
a certain pathos by its very commonness and the 
complete wreck which it showed. This was the 
end of a low gable, a bit of gray wall, all incrusted 
with lichens, in which was a common door-way. 
Probably it had been a servants’ entrance, a back- 
door, or opening into what are called “ the 
offices ” in Scotland. No offices remained to 
be entered, — pantry and kitchen had all been 
swept out of being ; but there stood the door- 
way open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the 
rabbits, and every wild creature. Ij struck my 
eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a 
melancholy comment upon a life that was over. 
A door that led to nothing, — closed once, per- 
haps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


II 


now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I 
remember, from the first ; so perhaps it may be 
said that my mind was prepared to attach to it 
an importance which nothing justified. 

Tlie summer was a very happy period of repose 
for us all. The warmth of Indian suns was still 
in our veins. It seemed to us that we could 
never have enough of the greenness, the dewi- 
ness, the freshness of the northern landscape. 

, Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the 
fever out of us, and pouring in vigor and refresh- 
ment. In autumn we followed the fashion of 
the time, and went away for change which we 
did not in the least require. It was when the 
family had settled down for the winter, when 
the days were short and dark, and the rigorous 
reign of frost upon us, that the incidents occurred 
which alone could justify me in intruding upon 
the world my private affairs. These incidents 
were, however, of so curious a character, that I 
hope my inevitable references to my own family 
and pressing personal interests will meet with a 
general pardon. 

I was absent in London when these events 
began. In London an old Indian plunges back 
into the interests with which all his previous life 
has been associated, and meets old friends at 


12 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


every step. I had been circulating among some 
half-dozen of these, — enjoying the return to my 
former life in shadow, though I had been so 
thankful in substance to throw it aside, — and 
had missed some of my home letters, what with 
going down from Friday to Monday to old 
Benbow’s place in the country, and stopping on 
the way back to dine and sleep at Sellar’s and to 
take a look into Cross’s stables, which occupied 
another day. It is never safe to miss one’s 
letters. In this transitory life, as the Prayer-book 
says, how can one ever be certain what is going 
to happen? All was well at home. I knew 
exactly (I thought) what they would have to say 
to me : “ The weather has been so fine, that 
Roland has not once gone by train, and he 
enjoys the ride beyond anything.” “ Dear papa, 
be sure that you don’t forget anything, but bring 
us so-and-so, and so-and-so,” — a list as long as 
my arm. Dear girls and dearer mother ! I 
would not for the world have forgotten their 
commissions, or lost their little letters, for all the 
Benbows and Crosses in the world. 

But I was confident in my home-comfort and 
peacefulness. When I got back to my club, how- 
ever, three or four letters were lying for me, 
upon some of which I noticed the ‘‘ immediate,” 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


13 


urgent,” which old-fashioned people and anx- 
ious people still believe will influence the post- 
office and quicken the speed of the mails. I was 
about to open one of these, when the club porter 
brought me two telegrams, one of which, he said, 
had arrived the night before. I opened, as was 
to be expected, the last first, and this was what 
I read : Why don’t you come or answer? For 
God’s sake, come. He is much worse.” This 
was a thunderbolt to fall upon a man’s head who 
had one only son, and he the light of his eyes ! 
The other telegram, which I opened with hands 
trembling so much that I lost time by my haste, 
was to much the same purport : “No better ; 
doctor afraid of brain-fever. Calls for you day 
and night. Let nothing detain you.” The first 
thing I did was to look up the time-tables to see 
if there was any way of getting off sooner than by 
the night-train, though I knew well enough there 
was not ; and then I read the letters, which fur- 
nished, alas ! too clearly, all the details. They 
told me that the boy had been pale for some 
time, with a scared look. His mother had 
noticed it before I left home, but would not say 
anything to alarm me. This look had increased 
day by day; and soon it was observed that 
Roland came home at a wild gallop through the 


14 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


park, his pony panting and in foam, himself “ as 
white as a sheet,” but with the perspiratioh 
streaming from his forehead. For a long time 
he had resisted all questioning, but at length had 
developed such strange changes of mood, show- 
ing a reluctance to go to school, a desire to be 
fetched in the carriage at night, — which was a 
ridiculous piece of luxury, — an unwillingness to 
go out into the grounds, and nervous start at 
every sound, that his mother had insisted upon an 
explanation. When the boy — our boy Roland, 
who had never known what fear was — began 
to talk to her of voices he had heard in the 
park, and shadows that had appeared to him 
among the ruins, my wife promptly put him to 
bed and sent for Dr. Simson, which, of course, 
was the only thing to do. 

I hurried off that evening, as may be supposed, 
with an anxious heart. How I got through the 
hours before the starting of the train, I cannot 
tell. We must all be thankful for the quickness 
of the railway when in anxiety; but to have 
thrown myself into a post-chaise as soon as horses 
could be put to, would have been a relief. I got 
to Edinburgh very early in the blackness of the 
winter morning, and scarcely dared look the man 
in the face, at whom I gasped, “What news?” 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


15 


My wife had sent the brougham for me, which I 
concluded, before the man spoke, was a bad 
sign. His answer was that stereotyped answer 
which leaves the imagination so wildly free, — 
‘‘ Just the same.” Just the same ! What might 
that mean ? The horses seemed to me to creep 
along the long dark country road. As we dashed 
through the park, I thought I heard some one 
moaning among the trees, and clenched my fist 
at him (whoever he might be) with fury. Why 
had the fool of a woman at the gate allowed any 
one to come in to disturb the quiet of the place ? 
If I had not been in such hot haste to get home, 
I think I should have stopped the carriage and 
got out to see what tramp it was that had made 
an entrance, and chosen my grounds, of all 
places in the world, — when my boy was ill ! — 
to grumble and groan in. But I had no reason 
to complain of our slow pace here. The horses 
flew like lightning along the intervening path, and 
drew up at the door all panting, as if they had 
run a race. My wife stood waiting to receive me, 
with a pale face, and a candle in her hand, which 
made her look paler still as the wind blew the 
flame about. He is sleeping,” she said in a 
whisper, as if her voice might wake him. And 
I replied, when I could find my voice, also in a 


i6 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


' whisper, as though the jingling of the horses’ fur- 
niture and the sound of their hoofs must not have 
been more dangerous. I stood on the steps with 
her a moment, almost afraid to go in, now that 
I was here ; and it seemed to me that I saw 
without observing, if I may say so, that the horses 
were unwilling to turn round, though their stables 
lay that way, or that the men were unwilling. 
These things occurred to me afterwards, though 
at the moment I was not capable of anything but ' 
to ask questions and to hear of the condition of 
the boy. 

I looked at him from the door of his room, for 
we were afraid to go near, lest we should disturb 
that blessed sleep. It looked like actual sleep, 
not the lethargy into which my wife told me he 
would sometimes fall. She told me everything 
in the next room, which communicated with his, 
rising now and then and going to the door of 
communication ; and in this there was much that 
was very startling and confusing to the mind. 
It appeared that ever since the winter began — 
since it was early dark, and night had fallen 
before his return from school — he had been 
hearing voices among the ruins : at first only 
a groaning, he said, at which his pony was as 
much alarmed as he was, but by degrees a voice. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


17 


The tears ran down my wife’s cheeks as she de- 
scribed to me how he would start up in the night 
and cry out, ‘‘ Oh, mother, let me in ! oh, mother, 
let me in ! ” with a pathos which rent her heart. 
And she sitting there all the time, only longing 
to do everything his heart could desire ! But 
though she would try to soothe him, crying, You 
are at home, my darling. I am here. Don’t you 
know me ? Your mother is here ! ” he would 
only stare at her, and after a while spring up again 
with the same cry. At other times he would be 
quite reasonable, she said, asking eagerly when I 
was coming, but declaring that he must go with 
me as soon as I did so, “ to let them in.” The 
doctor thinks his nervous system must have re- 
ceived a shock,” my wife said. “Oh, Henry, 
can it be that we have pushed him on too much 
with his work — a delicate boy like Roland ? And 
what is his work in comparison with his health ? 
Even you would think little of honors or prizes 
if it hurt the boy’s health.” Even I ! — as if I 
were an inhuman father sacrificing my child to ' 
my ambition. But I would not increase her 
trouble by taking any notice. After a while they 
persuaded me to lie down, to rest, and to eat, 
none of which things had been possible since I 
received their letters. The mere fact of being 


i8 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


on the spot, of course, in itself was a great thing ; 
and when I knew that I could be called in a 
moment, as soon as he was awake and wanted 
me, I felt capable, even in the dark, chill morn- 
ing twilight, to snatch an hour or two’s sleep. As 
it happened, I was so worn out with the strain of 
anxiety, and he so quieted and consoled by know- 
ing I had come, that I was not disturbed till the 
afternoon, when the twilight had again settled 
down. There was just daylight enough to see his 
face when I went to him ; and what a change in 
a fortnight ! He was paler and more worn, I 
thought, than even in those dreadful days in the 
plains before we left India. His hair seemed to 
me to have grown long and lank ; his eyes were 
like blazing lights projecting out of his white face. 
He got hold of my hand in a cold and tremulous 
clutch, and waved to everybody to go away. “ Go 
away — even mother,” he said ; “ go away.” This 
went to her heart ; for she did not like that even 
I should have more of the boy’s confidence than 
herself ; but my wife has never been a woman to 
think of herself, and she left us alone. Are they 
all gone?” he said eagerly. “They would not 
let me speak. The doctor treated me as if I were 
a fool. You know I am not a fool, papa.” 

“ Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill, 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


19 


and quiet is so necessary. You are not only not 
a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable and under- 
stand. When you are ill you must deny yourself ; 
you must not do everything that you might do 
being well.” 

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indigna- 
tion. ^‘Then, father, I am not ill,” he cried. 
“ Oh, I thought when you came you would not 
stop me, — you would see the sense of it ! What 
do you think is the matter with me, all of you ? 
Simson is well enough ; but he is only a doctor. 
What do you think is the matter with me ? I 
am no more ill than you are. A doctor, of course, 
he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you 
— that ’s what he ’s there for — and claps you into 
bed.” 

“ Which is the best place for you at present, 
my dear boy.” 

“ I made up my mind,” cried the little fellow, 

that I would stand it till you came home. I 
said to myself, I won’t frighten mother and the 
girls. But now, father,” he cried, half jumping 
out of bed, “ it ’s not illness : it ’s a secret.” 

His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept 
with strong feeling, that my heart sank within me. 
It could be nothing but fever that did it, and fever 
had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to 


20 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


piit.him back into bed. Roland,” I said, hu- 
moring the poor child, which I knew was the 
only way, ‘‘ if you are going to tell me this secret 
to do any good, you know you 'must be quite 
quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite 
yourself, I must not let you speak.” 

“Yes, father,” said the boy. He was quiet 
directly, like a man, as if he quite understood. 
When I had laid him back on his pillow, he looked 
up at me with that grateful, sweet look with which 
children, when they are ill, break one’s heart, the 
water coming into his eyes in his weakness. “ I 
was sure as soon as you were here you would 
know what to do,” he said. 

“To be sure, my boy. Now keep quiet, and 
tell it all out like a man.” To think I was tell- 
ing lies to my own child ! for I did it only to 
humor him, thinking, poor little fellow, his brain 
was wrong. 

“ Yes, father. Father, there is some one in 
the park, — some one that has been badly used.” 

“ Hush, my dear ; you remember there is to 
be no excitement. Well, who is this somebody, 
and who has been ill-using him ? We will soon 
put a stop to that.” 

“ Ah,” cried Roland, “but it is not so easy as 
you think. I don’t know who it is. It is just a 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


21 


cry. Oh, if you could hear it ! It gets into 
my head in my sleep. I heard it as clear — as 
clear; and they think that I am dreaming, or 
raving perhaps,” the boy said, with a sort of 
disdainful smile. 

This look of his perplexed me; it was less 
like fever than I thought. ‘‘Are you quite sure 
you have not dreamed it, Roland?” I said. 

“Dreamed? — that ! ” He was springing up 
again when he suddenly bethought himself, and 
lay down flat, with the same sort of smile on his 
face. “ The pony heard it, too,” he said. “ She 
jumped as if she had been shot. If I had not 
grasped at the reins — for I was frightened, 
father — ” 

“No shame to you, my boy,” said I, though 
I scarcely knew why. 

“ If I had n’t held to her like a leech, she ’d 
have pitched me over her head, and never drew 
breath till we were at the door. Did the pony 
dream it?” he said, with a soft disdain, yet in- 
dulgence for my foolishness. Then he added 
slowly, “ It was only a cry the first time, and all 
the time before you went away. I would n’t tell 
you, for it was so wretched to be frightened. I 
thought it might be a hare or a rabbit snared, and 
I went in the morning and looked ; but there was 


22 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


nothing. It was after you went I heard it really 
first; and this is what he says.” He raised 
himself on his elbow close to me, and looked 
me in the face : ‘ Oh, mother, let me in ! oh, 

mother, let me in ! ’ ” As he said the words a 
mist came over his face, the mouth quivered, the 
soft features all melted and changed, and when 
he had ended these pitiful words, dissolved in a 
shower of heavy tears. 

Was it a hallucination? Was it the fever of 
the brain ? Was it the disordered fancy caused 
by great bodily weakness ? How could I tell ? I 
thought it wisest to accept it as if it were all true. 

This is very touching, Roland,” I said. 

“ Oh, if you had just heard it, father ! I said 
to myself, if father heard it he would do some- 
thing ; but mamma, you know, she ’s given over 
to Simson, and that fellow ’s a doctor, and never 
thinks of anything but clapping you into bed.” 

“ We must not blame Simson for being a doc- 
tor, Roland.” 

‘‘No, no,” said my boy, with delightful tolera- 
tion and indulgence ; “ oh, no ; that ’s the good 
of him ; that ’s what he ’s for ; I know that. But 
you — you are different ; you are just father ; and 
you ’ll do something — directly, papa, directly ; 
this very night.” 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


23 


Surely,” 1 said. “No doubt it is some little 
lost child.” 

He gave me a sudden, swift look, investigating 
my face as though to see whether, after all, this 
was everything my eminence as “ father ” came 
to, — no more than that. Then he got hold of 
my shoulder, clutching it with his thin hand : 
“ Look here,” he said, with a quiver in his voice ; 
“ suppose it was n’t — living at all ! ” 

“ My dear boy, how then could you have heard 
it? ” I said. 

He turned away from me with a pettish ex- 
clamation, — “ As if you did n’t know better than 
that ! ” 

“ Do you want to tell me it is a ghost?” I said. 

Roland withdrew his hand; his countenance 
assumed an aspect of great dignity and gravity ; 
a slight quiver remained about his lips. “ What- 
ever it was — you always said we were not to 
call names. It was something — in trouble. 
Oh, father, in terrible trouble ! ” 

“ But, my boy,” I said (I was at my wits’ end), 
“ if it was a child that was lost, or any poor human 
creature — but, Roland, what do you want me 
to do?” 

“ I should know if I was you,” said the child 
eagerly. “ That is what I always said to myself. 


24 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


— Father will know. Oh, papa, papa, to have 
to face it night after night, in such terrible, ter- 
rible trouble, and never to be able to do it any 
good! I don’t want to cry; it’s like a baby, 
I know ; but what can I do else ? Out there all 
by itself in the ruin, and nobody to help it ! I 
can’t bear it 1 I can’t bear it ! ” cried my gener- 
ous boy. And in his weakness he burst out, after 
many attempts to restrain it, into a great childish 
fit of sobbing and tears. 

I do not know that I ever was in a greater per- 
plexity in my life ; and afterwards, when I thought 
of it, there was something comic in it too. It is 
bad enough to find your child’s mind possessed 
with the conviction that he has seen, or heard, a 
ghost ; but that he should require you to go in- 
stantly and help that ghost was the most bewilder- 
ing experience that had ever come my way. I 
am a sober man myself, and not superstitious — 
at least any more than everybody is superstitious. 
Of course I do not believe in ghosts ; but I don’t 
deny, any more than other people, that there are 
stories which I cannot pretend to understand. 
My blood got a sort of chill in my veins at the 
idea that Roland should be a ghost-seer; for 
that generally means a hysterical temperament 
and weak health, and all that men most hate and 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


25 


fear for their children. But that I should take 
up his ghost and right its wrongs, and save it 
from its trouble, was such a mission as was 
enough to confuse any man. I did my best to 
console my boy without giving any promise of 
this astonishing kind ; but he was too sharp for 
me : he would have none of my caresses. With 
sobs breaking in at intervals upon his voice, and 
the rain-drops hanging on his eyelids, he yet 
returned to the charge. 

“ It will be there now ! — it will be there all the 
night ! Oh, think, papa, — think if it was me ! 
I can’t rest for thinking of it. Don’t ! ” he cried, 
putting away my hand, — “ don’t ! You go and 
help it, and mother can take care of me.” 

“ But, Roland, what can I do ? ” 

My boy opened his eyes. Which were large 
with weakness and fever, and gave me a smile 
such, I think, as sick children only know the 
secret of. “ I was sure you would know as soon 
as you came. I always said. Father will know. 
And mother,” he cried, with a softening of re- 
pose upon his face, his limbs relaxing, his form 
sinking with a luxurious ease in his bed, — 
“ mother can come and take care of me.” 

I called her, and saw him turn to her with the 
complete dependence of a child ; and then I 


26 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


went away and left them, as perplexed a man as 
any in Scotland. I must say, however, I had 
this consolation, that my mind was greatly eased 
about Roland. He might be under a hallucina- 
tion ; but his head was clear enough, and I did not 
think him so ill as everybody else did. The girls 
were astonished even at the ease with which I 
took it. “How do you think he is?” they said in 
a breath, coming round me, laying hold of me. 
“ Not half so ill as I expected,” I said; “not 
very bad at all.” “ Oh, papa, you are a dar- 
ling ! ” cried Agatha, kissing me, and crying upon 
my shoulder; while little Jeanie, who was as 
pale as Roland, clasped both her arms round 
mine, and could not speak at all. I knew noth- 
ing about it, not half so much as Simson ; but 
they believed in me : they had a feeling that all 
would go right now. God is very good to you 
when your children look to you like that. It 
makes one humble, not proud. I was not worthy 
of it ; and then I recollected that I had to act 
the part of a father to Roland’s ghost, — which 
made me almost laugh, though I might just as 
well have cried. It was the strangest mission 
that ever was intrusted to mortal man. 

It was then I remembered suddenly the looks 
of the men when they turned to take the 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


27 


brougham to the stables in the dark that morn- 
ing. They had not liked it, and the horses had 
not liked it. I remembered that even in my 
anxiety about Roland I had heard them tearing 
along the avenue back to the stables, and had 
made a memorandum mentally that I must speak 
of it. .It seemed to me that the best thing I 
could do was to go to the stables now and make 
a few inquiries. It is impossible to fathom the 
minds of rustics ; there might be some devilry 
of practical joking, for anything I knew ; or they 
might have some interest in getting up a bad 
reputation for the Brentwood avenue. It was get- 
ting dark by the time I went out, and nobody who 
knows the country will need to be told how black 
is the darkness of a November night under high 
laurel-bushes and yew-trees. I walked into the 
heart of the shrubberies two or three times, not 
seeing a step before me, till I came out upon the 
broader carriage-road, where the trees opened a 
little, and there was a faint gray glimmer of sky 
visible, under which the great limes and elms 
stood darkling like ghosts; but it grew black 
again as I approached the corner where the ruins 
lay. Both eyes and ears were on the alert, as 
may be supposed ; but I could see nothing in 
the absolute gloom, and, so far as I can recollect, 


28 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


I heard nothing. Nevertheless there came a 
strong impression upon me that somebody was 
there. It is a sensation which most people have , 
felt. I have seen when it has been strong enough 
to awake me out of sleep, the sense of some one 
looking at me. I suppose my imagination had 
been affected by Roland’s story ; and the mys- 
tery of the darkness is always full of suggestions. 

I stamped my feet violently on the gravel to rouse 
myself, and called out sharply, “ Who ’s there? ” 
Nobody answered, nor did I expect any one to 
answer, but the impression had been made. I 
was so foolish that I did not like to look back, 
but went sideways, keeping an eye on the gloom 
behind. It was with great relief that I spied the 
light in the stables, making a sort of oasis in the 
darkness. I walked very quickly into the midst of 
that lighted and cheerful place, and thought the 
clank of the groom’s pail one of the pleasantest 
sounds I had ever heard. The coachman was 
the head of this little colony, and it was to his 
house I went to pursue my investigations. He 
was a native of the district, and had taken care 
of the place in the absence of the family for 
years ; it was impossible but that he must know 
everything that was going on, and all the tradi- 
tions of the place. The men, I could see, eyed 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


- 29 

me anxiously when I thus appeared at such an 
hour among them, and followed me with their 
eyes to Jarvis’s house, where he lived alone with 
his old wife, their children being all married and 
out in the world. Mrs. Jarvis met me with anx- 
ious questions. How was the poor young gentle- 
man ? But the others knew, I could see by their 
faces, that not even this was the foremost thing 
in my mind. 


‘‘Noises? — ou ay, there’ll be noises, — the 
wind in the trees, and the water soughing down 
the glen. As for tramps. Cornel, no, there ’s little 
o* that kind o’ cattle about here ; and Merran 
at the gate ’s a careful body.” Jarvis moved 
about with some embarrassment from one leg to 
another as he spoke. He kept in the shade, and 
did not look at me more than he could help. 
Evidently his mind was perturbed, and he had 
reasons for keeping his own counsel. His wife 
sat by, giving him a quick look now and then, 
but saying nothing. The kitchen was very snug 
and warm and bright, — as different as could be 
from the chill and mystery of the night outside. 

“ I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis,” I 
said. 


30 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


“Triflin’, Cornel? No me. What would I 
trifle for? If the deevil himsel was in the auld 
hoose, I have no interest in ’t one way or an- 
other— ” 

“Sandy, hold your peace!” cried his wife 
imperatively. 

“And what am I to hold my peace for, 
wi’ the Cornel standing there asking a’ thae 
questions? I’m saying, if the deevil him- 
sel—” 

“ And I ’m telling ye hold your peace 1 ” cried 
the woman, in great excitement. “ Dark No- 
vember weather and lang nichts, and us that ken 
a’ we ken. How daur ye name — a name that 
shouldna be spoken?” She threw down her 
stocking and got up, also in great agitation. “ I 
tellt ye you never could keep it. It ’s no a 
thing that will hide ; and the haill toun kens as 
weel as you or me. Tell the Cornel straight out 
— or see, I ’ll do it. I dinna hold wi’ your 
secrets, and a secret that the haill toun kens I ” 
She snapped her fingers with an air of large dis- 
dain. As for Jarvis, ruddy and big as he was, he 
shrank to nothing before this decided woman. 
He repeated to her two or three times her own 
adjuration, “ Hold your peace 1 ” then, suddenly 
changing his tone, cried out, “Tell him then. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


31 


confound ye ! I ’ll wash my hands o ’t. If a’ 
the ghosts in Scotland were in the auld hoose, is 
that ony concern o’ mine ? ” 

After this I elicited without much difficulty 
the whole story. In the opinion of the Jarvises, 
and of everybody about, the certainty that the 
place was haunted was beyond all doubt. As 
Sandy and his wife warmed to the tale, one 
tripping up another in their eagerness to tell 
everything, it gradually developed as distinct a 
superstition as I ever heard, and not without 
poetry and pathos. How long it was since the 
voice had been heard first, nobody could tell 
with certainty. Jarvis’s opinion was that his 
father, who had been coachman at Brentwood 
before him, had never heard anything about it, 
and that the whole thing had arisen within the 
last ten years> since the complete dismantling of 
the old house ; which was a wonderfully modern * 
date for a tale so well authenticated. According 
to these witnesses, and to several whom I ques- 
tioned afterwards, and who were all in perfect 
agreement, it was only in the months of November 
and December that the visitation ” occurred. 
During these months, the darkest of the year, 
scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of 
these inexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, 


32 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


had ever been seen, — at least, nothing that could 
be identified. Some people, bolder or more 
imaginative than the others, had seen the dark- 
ness moving, Mrs. Jarvis said, with unconscious 
poetry. It began when night fell, and continued, 
at intervals, till day broke. Very often it was only 
an inarticulate cry and moaning, but sometimes 
the words which had taken possession of my 
poor boy’s fancy had been distinctly audible, — 
“ Oh, mother, let me in ! ” The Jarvises were 
not aware that there had ever been any investiga- 
tion into it. The estate of Brentwood had lapsed 
into the hands of a distant branch of the family, 
who had lived but little there ; and of the many 
people who had taken it, as I had done, few had 
remained through two Decembers. And nobody 
had taken the trouble to make a very close ex- 
amination into the facts. No, no,” Jarvis said, 
shaking his head, ‘‘No, no. Cornel. Wha wad 
set themsels up for a laughin’-stock to a’ the 
country-side, making a wark about a ghost? 
Naebody believes in ghosts. It bid to be the 
wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or 
some effec’ o’ the water wrastlin’ among the 
rocks. He said it was a’ quite easy explained ; 
but he gave up the hoose. And when you cam. 
Cornel, we were awfu’ anxious you should never 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


33 


hear. What for should I have spoiled the bargain 
and hairmed the property for no-thing ? ” 

“Do you call my child’s life nothing?” I 
said in the trouble of the moment, unable to 
restrain myself. “And instead of telling this 
all to me, you have told it to him, — to a 
delicate boy, a child unable to sift evidence 
or judge for himself, a tender-hearted young 
creature — ” 

I was walking about the room with an anger all 
the hotter that I felt it to be most likely quite 
unjust. My heart was full of bitterness against 
the stolid retainers of a family who were content 
to risk other people’s children and comfort rather 
than let a house lie empty. If I had been warned 
I might have taken precautions, or left the place, 
or sent Roland away, a hundred things which now 
I could not do ; and here I was with my boy in a 
brain-fever, and his life, the most precious life 
on earth, hanging in the balance, dependent on 
whether or not I could get to the reason of a 
commonplace ghost-story ! I paced about in high 
wrath, not seeing what I was to do ; for to take 
Roland away, even if he were able to travel, would 
not settle his agitated mind ; and I feared even 
that a scientific explanation of refracted sound or 
reverberation, or any other of the easy certainties 
3 


34 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


with which we elder men are silenced, would have 
very little effect upon the boy. 

“ Cornel,” said Jarvis solemnly, “ and sAe V/bear 
me witness, — the young gentleman never heard a 
word from me — no, nor from either groom or gar- 
dener ; I ’ll gie ye my word for that. In the first 
place, he ’s no a lad that invites ye to talk. There 
are some that are, and some that arena. Some 
will draw ye on, till ye Ve tellt them a’ the clatter 
of the toun, and a’ ye ken, and whiles mair. But 
Maister Roland, his mind ’s fu’ of his books. He ’s 
aye civil and kind, and a fine lad ; but no that 
sort. And ye see it ’s for a’ our interest, Cornel, 
that you should stay at Brentwood. I took it 
upon me mysel to pass the word, — ‘ No a syllable 
to Maister Roland, nor to the young leddies — no 
a syllable.’ The women- servants, that have little 
reason to be out at night, ken little or nothing 
about it. And some think it grand to have a 
ghost so long as they ’re no in the way of com- 
ing across it. If you had been tellt the story 
to begin with, maybe ye would have thought so 
yourself.” 

This was true enough, though it did not throw 
any light upon my perplexity. If we had heard 
of it to start with, it is possible that all the family 
would have considered the possession of a ghost a 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


35 


distinct advantage. It is the fashion of the times. 
We never think what a risk it is to play with< 
young imaginations, but cry out, in the fashion- 
able jargon, “A ghost ! — nothing else was wanted 
to make it perfect.” I should not have been 
above this myself. I should have smiled, of 
course, at the idea of the ghost at all, but then 
to feel that it was mine would have pleased my 
vanity. Oh, yes, I claim no exemption. The 
girls would have been delighted. I could fancy 
their eagerness, their interest, and excitement. 
No ; if we had been told, it would have done no 
good, — we should have made the bargain all the 
more eagerly, the fools that we are. “And there 
has been no attempt to investigate it,” I said, “ to 
see what it really is ? ” 

“ Eh, Cornel,” said the coachman’s wife, “ wha 
would investigate, as ye call it, a thing that no- 
body believes in? Ye would be the laughin’- 
stock of a’ the country-side, as my man says.” 

“ But you believe in it,” I said, turning upon 
her hastily. The woman was taken by surprise. 
She made a step backward out of my way. 

“ Lord, Cornel, how ye frichten a body ! Me ! 
— there ’s awfu’ strange things in this world. An 
unlearned person doesna ken what to think. But 
the minister and the gentry they just laugh in 


36 THE OPEN DOOR. 

your face. Inquire into the thing that is not ! 
Na, na, we just let it be.” 

Come with me, Jarvis,” I said hastily, and 
we ’ll make an attempt at least. Say nothing to 
the men or to anybody. I ’ll come back after 
dinner, and we ’ll make a serious attempt to see 
what it is, if it is anything. If I hear it, — which 
I doubt, — you may be sure I shall never rest 
till I make it out. Be ready for me about ten 
o’clock.” 

“ Me, Cornel ! ” Jarvis said, in a faint voice. 
I had not been looking at him in my own pre- 
occupation, but when I did so, I found that the 
greatest change had come over the fat and ruddy 
coachman. Me, Cornel ! ” he repeated, wiping 
the perspiration from his brow. His ruddy face 
hung in flabby folds, his knees knocked together, 
his voice seemed half extinguished in his throat. 
Then he began to rub his hands and smile upon 
me in a deprecating, imbecile way. There ’s 
nothing I wouldna do to pleasure ye. Cornel,” 
taking a step further back. I ’m sure she kens 
I ’ve aye said I never had to do with a mair fair, 
weel-spoken gentleman — ” Here Jarvis came 
to a pause, again looking at me, rubbing his 
hands. 

“Well?” I said. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


37 


“ But eh, sir ! ” he went on, with the same 
imbecile yet insinuating smile, “ if ye ’ll reflect 
that I am no used to my feet. With a horse 
atween my legs, or the reins in my hand, I ’m 
maybe nae worse than other men ; but on fit, 
Cornel — It ’s no the — boglps ; — but I ’ve been 
cavalry, ye see,” with a little hoarse laugh, “ a’ 
my life. To face a thing ye didna understan’ 
— on your feet. Cornel.” 

“Well, sir, if I do it,” said I tartly, “why 
should n’t you ? ” 

“ Eh, Cornel, there ’s an awfu’ difference. In 
the first place, ye tramp about the haill country- 
side, and think naething of it ; but a walk tires 
me mair than a hunard miles’ drive ; and 
then ye ’re a gentleman, and do your ain 
pleasure ; and you ’re no so auld as me ; and 
it ’s for your ain bairn, ye see. Cornel ; and 
then — ” 

“He believes in it. Cornel, and you dinna 
believe in it,” the woman said. 

“Will you come with me?” I said, turning 
to her. 

She jumped back, upsetting her chair in her 
bewilderment. “ Me ! ” with a scream, and then 
fell into a sort of hysterical laugh. “ I wouldna 
say but what I would go ; but what would the 


38 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


folk say to hear of Cornel Mortimer with an auld 
silly woman at his heels?” 

The suggestion made me laugh too, though 
I had little inclination for it. I ’m sorry you 
have so little spirit, Jarvis,” I said. must 
find some one else^ I suppose.” 

Jarvis, touched by this, began to remonstrate, 
but I cut him short. My butler was a soldier 
who had been with me in India, and was not 
supposed to fear anything, — man or devil, — 
certainly not the former ; and I felt that I was 
losing time. The Jarvises were too thankful to 
get rid of me. They attended me to the door 
with the most anxious courtesies. Outside, the 
two grooms stood ’ close by, a little confused by 
my sudden exit. I don’t know if perhaps they 
had been listening, — as least standing as near as 
possible, to catch any scrap of the conversation. 
I waved my hand to them as I went past, in 
answer to their salutations, and it was very ap- 
parent to me that they also were glad to see 
me go. 

And it will be thought very strange, but it 
would be weak not to add, that I myself, though 
bent on the investigation I have spoken of, 
pledged to Roland to carry it out, and feeling 
that my boy’s health, perhaps his life, depended 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


39 


on the result of my inquiry, — I felt the most 
unaccountable reluctance to pass these ruins on 
my way home. My curiosity was intense ; and 
► yet it was all my mind could do to pull my body 
along. I daresay the scientific people would 
describe it the other way, and attribute my 
cowardice to the state of my stomach. I went 
on ; but if I had followed my impulse, I should 
have turned and bolted. Everything in me 
seemed to cry out against it : my heart thumped, 
my pulses all began, like sledge-hammers, beat- 
ing against my ears and every sensitive part. It 
was very dark, as I have said; the old house, 
with its shapeless tower, loomed a heavy mass 
through the darkness, which was only not en- 
tirely so solid as itself. On the other hand, the 
great dark cedars of which we were so proud 
seemed to fill up the night. My foot strayed 
out of the path in my confusion and the gloom 
together, and I brought myself up with a cry as 
I felt myself knock against something solid. 
What was it? The contact with hard stone and 
lime and prickly bramble-bushes restored me a 
little to myself. “ Oh, it ’s only the old gable,” 
I said aloud, with a little laugh to reassure my- 
self. The rough feeling of the stones reconciled 
me. As I groped about thus, I shook off my 


40 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


visionary folly. What so easily explained as that 
I should have strayed from the path in the dark- 
ness ? This brought me back to common exist- 
ence, as if I had been shaken by a wise hand 
out of all the silliness of superstition. How 
silly it was, after all ! What did it matter which 
path I took? I laughed again, this time with 
better heart, when suddenly, in a moment, the 
blood was chilled in my veins, a shiver stole 
along my spine, my faculties seemed to forsake 
me. Close by me, at my side, at my feet, there 
was a sigh. No, not a groan, not a moaning, 
not anything so tangible, — a perfectly soft, faint, 
inarticulate sigh. I sprang back, and my heart 
stopped beating. Mistaken ! no, mistake was 
impossible. I heard it as clearly as I hear my- 
self speak ; a long, soft, weary sigh, as if drawn 
to the utmost, and emptying out a load of sad- 
ness that filled the breast. To hear this in the 
solitude, in the dark, in the night (though it was 
still early), had an effect which I cannot describe. 
I feel it now, — something cold creeping over me, 
up into my hair, and down to my feet, which 
refused to move. I cried out, with a trembling 
voice, -^Who is there?” as I had done before; 
but there was no reply. 

I got home I don’t quite know how ; but in 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


41 


my mind there was no longer any indifference as 
to the thing, whatever it was, that haunted these 
ruins. My scepticism disappeared like a mist. 
I was as firmly determined that there was some- 
thing as Roland was. I did not for a moment 
pretend to myself that it was possible I could be 
deceived ; there were movements and noises 
which I understood all about, — cracklings of 
small branches in the frost, and little rolls of gravel 
on the path, such as have a very eerie sound some- 
times, and perplex you with wonder as to who 
has done it, when there is no real mystery ; but 
I assure you all these little movements of nature 
don’t affect you one bit when there is something. 
I understood them. I did not understand the sigh. 
That was not simple nature ; there was meaning 
in it, feeling, the soul of a creature invisible. 
This is the thing that human nature trembles at, 
— a creature invisible, yet with sensations, feel- 
ings, a power somehow of expressing itself. I 
had not the same sense of unwillingness to turn 
my back upon the scene of the mystery which 
I had experienced in going to the stables ; but 
I almost ran home, impelled by eagerness to get 
everything done that had to be done, in order to 
apply myself to finding it out. Bagley was in 
the hall as usual when I went in. He was 


42 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


always there in the afternoon, always with the 
appearance of perfect occupation, yet, so far as 
I know, never doing anything. The door was 
open, so that I hurried in without any pause, 
breathless ; but the sight of his calm regard, as 
he came to help me off with my overcoat, sub- 
dued me in a moment. Anything out of the way, 
anything incomprehensible, faded to nothing in 
the presence of Bagley. You saw and wondered 
how he was made : the parting of his hair, the 
tie of his white neckcloth, the fit of his trousers, 
all perfect as works of art ; but you could see how 
they were done, which makes all the difference. 
I flung myself upon him, so to speak, without 
waiting to note the extreme unlikeness of the 
man to anything of the kind I meant. “ Bagley,” 
I said, “ I want you to come out with me to- 
night to watch for — ” 

“Poachers, Colonel?” he said, a gleam of 
pleasure running all over him. 

“ No, Bagley ; a great deal worse,” I cried. 

“Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?” the man 
said ; but then I had not told him what it was. 

It was ten o’clock when we set out. All was 
perfectly quiet indoors. My wife was with Ro- 
land, who had been quite calm, she said, and who 
(though, no doubt, the fever must run its course) 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


43 


had been better ever since I came. I told Bagley 
to put on a thick greatcoat over his everting coat, 
and did the same myself, with strong boots ; 
for the soil was like a sponge, or worse. Talking 
to him, I almost forgot what we were going to do. 
It was darkei even than it had been before, and 
Bagley kept very close to me as we went along. 
I had a small lantern in my hand, which gave us 
a partial guidance. We had come to the corner 
where the path turns. On one side was the 
bowling-green, which the girls had taken posses- 
sion of for their croquet-ground, — a wonderful 
enclosure surrounded by high hedges of holly, 
three hundred years old and more ; on the other, 
the ruins. Both were black as night ; but before 
we got so far, there was a little opening in which 
we could just discern the trees and the lighter 
line of the road. I thought it best to pause 
there and take breath. “ Bagley,” I said, there 
is something about these ruins I don’t under- 
stand. It is there I am going. Keep your eyes 
open and your wits about you. Be ready to 
pounce upon any stranger you see, — anything, 
man or woman. Don’t hurt, but seize — anything 
you see.” “ Colonel,” said Bagley, with a little 
tremor in his breath, “ they do say there ’s things 
there — as is neither man nor woman.” There 


44 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


was no time for words. Are you game to fol- 
low me, my man? that’s the question,” I said. 
Bagley fell in without a word, and saluted. I 
knew then I had nothing to fear. 

We went, so far as I could guess, exactly as I 
had come, when I heard that sigh. The darkness, 
however, was so complete that all marks, as of 
trees or paths, disappeared. One moment we 
felt our feet on the gravel, another sinking noise- 
lessly into the slippery grass, that was all. I had 
shut up my lantern, not wishing to scare any one, 
whoever it might be. Bagley followed, it seemed 
to me, exactly in my footsteps as I made my 
way, as I supposed, towards the mass of the 
ruined house. We seemed to take a long time 
groping along seeking this ; the squash of the wet 
soil under our feet was the only thing that marked 
our progress. After a while I stood still to see, 
or rather feel, where we were. The darkness was 
very still, but no stiller than is usual in a winter’s 
night. The sounds I have mentioned — the 
crackling of twigs, the roll of a pebble, the sound 
of some rustle in the dead leaves, or creeping 
creature on the grass — were audible when you 
listened, all mysterious enough when your mind 
is disengaged, but to me cheering now as signs of 
the livingness of nature, even in the death of the 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


45 


frost. As we stood still there came up from the 
trees in the glen the prolonged hoot of an owl. 
Bagley started with alarm, being in a state of 
general nervousness, and mot knowing what he 
was afraid of. But to me the sound was encour- 
aging and pleasant, being so comprehensible. 
‘‘An owl,” I said, under my breath. “Y — es. 
Colonel,” said Bagley, his teeth chattering. We 
stood still about five minutes, while it broke 
into the still brooding of the air, the sound 
widening out in circles, dying upon the dark- 
ness. This sound, which is not a cheerful one, 
made me almost gay. It was natural, and re- 
lieved the tension of the mind. I moved on with 
new courage, my nervous excitement calming 
down. 

When all at once, quite suddenly, close to us, 
at our feet, there broke out a cry. I made a spring 
backwards in the first moment of surprise and 
horror, and in doing so came sharply against the 
same rough masonry and brambles that had struck 
me before. This new sound came upwards from 
the ground, — a low, moaning, wailing voice, full 
of suffering and pain. The contrast between it 
and the hoot of the owl was indescribable, — the 
one with a wholesome wildness and naturalness 
that hurt nobody ; the other, a sound that made 


46 


THE OPEN Dv^OR. 


one rs blood curdle, full of human misery. With 
a great deal of fumbling, — for in spite of every- 
thing I could do to keep up my courage my 
hands shook, — I managed to remove the slide 
of my lantern. The light leaped out like some- 
thing living, and made the place visible in a 
moment. We were what would have been in- 
side the ruined building had anything remained 
but the gable-wall which I have described. It 
was close to us, the vacant door-way in it going 
out straight into the blackness outside. The 
light showed the bit of wall, the ivy glistening 
upon it in clouds of dark green, the bramble- 
branches waving, and below, the open door, — 
a door that led to nothing. It was from this the 
voice came which died out just as the light 
flashed upon this strange scene. There was a 
moment’s silence, and then it broke forth again. 
The sound was so near, so penetrating, so pitiful, 
that, in the nervous start I gave, the light fell out 
of my hand. As I groped for it in the dark my 
hand was clutched by Bagley, who, I think, must 
have dropped upon his knees; but I was too 
much perturbed myself to think much of this. 
He clutched at me in the confusion of his terror, 
forgetting all his usual decorum. “ For God’s 
sake, what is it, sir? ” he gasped. If I yielded. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


47 


there was evidently an end of both of us. ** I 
can’t tell,” I said, “ any more than you ; that ’s 
what we ’ve got to find out. Up, man, up ! ” I 
pulled him to his feet. “ Will you go round and 
examine the other side, or will you stay here with 
the lantern? ” Bagley gasped at me with a face 
of horror. “ Can’t we stay together. Colonel? ” 
he said ; his knees were trembling under him. 
I pushed him against the corner of the wall, and 
put the light into his hands. “ Stand fast till I 
come back ; shake yourself together, man ; let 
nothing pass you,” I said. The voice was within 
two or three feet of us ; of that there could be no 
doubt. 

I went myself to the other side of the wall, 
keeping close to it. The light shook in Bagley’s 
hand, but, tremulous though it was, shone out 
through the vacant door, one oblong block of 
light marking all the crumbling corners and hang- 
ing masses of foliage. Was that something dark 
huddled in a heap by the side of it? I pushed 
forward across the light in the door-way, and fell 
upon it with my hands ; but it was only a juni- 
per-bush growing close against the wall. Mean- 
while, the sight of my figure crossing the doorway 
had brought Bagley’s nervous excitement to a 
height: he flew at me, gripping my shoulder. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


I Ve got him, Colonel ! I Ve got him ! ” he 
cried, with a voice of sudden exultation. He 
thought it was a man, and was at once relieved. 
But at that moment the voice burst forth again 
between us, at our feet, — more close to us than 
any separate being could be. He dropped off 
from me, and fell against the wall, his jaw drop- 
ping as if he were dying. I suppose, at the same 
moment, he saw that it was me whom he had 
clutched. I, for my part, had scarcely more 
command of myself. I snatched the light out 
of his hand, and flashed it all about me wildly. 
Nothing, — the juniper-bush which I thought I 
had never seen before, the heavy growth of the 
glistening ivy, the brambles waving. It was close 
to my ears now, crying, crying, pleading as if for 
life. Either I heard the same words Roland had 
heard, or else, in my excitement, his imagination 
got possession of mine. The voice went on, 
growing into distinct articulation, but wavering 
about, now from one point, now from another, as 
if the owner of it were moving slowly back and 
forward. “ Mother ! mother ! ” and then an 
outburst of wailing. As my mind steadied, get- 
ting accustomed (as one’s mind gets accustomed 
to anything), it seemed to me as if some uneasy, 
miserable creature was pacing up and down 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


49 


before a closed door. Sometimes — but that 
must have been excitement — I thought I heard 
a sound like knocking, and then another burst, 
‘"Oh, mother! mother!” All this close, close 
to the space where I was standing with my lan- 
tern, now before me, now behind me : a creature 
restless, unhappy, moaning, crying, before the 
vacant door-way, which no one could either shut 
or open more. 

Do you hear it, Bagley ? do you hear what 
it is saying? ” I cried, stepping in through the 
door-way. He was lying against the wall, his 
eyes glazed, half dead with terror. He made a 
motion of his lips as if to answer me, but no 
sounds came ; then lifted his hand with a curious 
imperative movement as if ordering me to be 
silent and listen. And how long I did so I can- 
not tell. It began to have an interest, an exciting 
hold upon me,, which I could not describe. It 
seemed to call up visibly a scene any one could 
understand, — a something shut out, restlessly 
wandering to and fro ; sometimes the voice 
dropped, as if throwing itself down, sometimes 
wandered off a few paces, growing sharp and 
clear. “ Oh, mother, let me in ! oh, mother, 
mother, let me in ! oh, let me in ! ” Every word 
was clear to me. No wonder the boy had gone 


50 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


wild with pity. I tried to steady my mind upon 
Roland, upon his conviction that I could do 
something, but my head swam with the excite- 
ment, even when I partially overcame the terror. 
At last the words died away, and there was a 
sound of sobs and moaning. I cried out, In the 
name of God, who are you? ” with a kind of feel- 
ing in my mind that to use the name of God was 
profane, seeing that I did not believe in ghosts or 
anything supernatural ; but I did it all the same, 
and waited, my heart giving a leap of terror lest 
there should be a reply. Why this should have 
been I cannot tell, but I had a feeling that if 
there was an answer it would be more than I 
could bear. But there was no answer ; the moan- 
ing went on, and then, as if it had been real, 
the voice rose a little higher again, the words 
recommenced, “ Oh, mother, let me in ! oh, 
mother, let me in ! ” with an expression that was 
heart-breaking to hear. 

As if it had been real ! What do I mean by 
that? I suppose I got less alarmed as the thing 
went on. I began to recover the use of my 
senses, — .1 seemed to explain it all to myself by 
saying that this had once happened, that it was 
a recollection of a real scene. Why there should 
have seemed something quite satisfactory and 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


51 


composing in this explanation I cannot tell, but 
so it was. I began to listen almost as if it had 
been a play, forgetting Bagley, who, I almost 
think, had fainted, leaning against the wall. I 
was startled out of this strange spectatorship that 
had fallen upon me by the sudden rush of some- 
thing which made my heart jump once more, 
a large black figure in the door-way waving its 
arms. “ Come in ! come in ! come in ! ” it 
shouted out hoarsely at the top of a deep bass 
voice, and then poor Bagley fell down senseless 
across the threshold. He was less sophisticated 
than I, — he had not been able to bear it 
any longer. I took him for something super- 
natural, as he took me, and it was some time 
before I awoke to the necessities of the moment. 
I remembered only after, that from the time I 
began to give my attention to the man, I heard 
the other voice no more. It was some time 
before I brought him to. It must have been a 
strange scene : the lantern making a luminous 
spot in the darkness, the man’s white face lying 
on the black earth, I over him, doing what I 
could for him. Probably I should have been 
thought to be murdering him had any one seen 
iis. When at last I succeeded in pouring a little 
brandy down his throat, he sat up and looked 


52 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


about him wildly. What ’s up ? ” he said ; then 
recognizing me, tried to struggle to his feet with 
a faint “ Beg your pardon, Colonel.” I got him 
home as best I could, making him lean upon my 
arm. The great fellow was as weak as a child. 
Fortunately he did not for some time remember 
what had happened. From the time Bagley fell 
the voice had stopped, and all was still. 


‘‘ You Ve got an epidemic in your house, 
Colonel,” Simson said to me next morning. 
‘‘What ’s the meaning of it all? Here ’s your 
butler raving about a voice. This will never do, 
you know ; and so far as I can make out, you 
are in it too.” 

“Yes, I am in it. Doctor. I thought I had 
better speak to you. Of course you are treating 
Roland all right, but the boy is not raving, he 
is as sane as you or me. It ’s all true.” 

“As sane as — I — or you. I never thought 
the boy insane. He ’s got cerebral excitement, 
fever. I don’t know what you ’ve got. There ’s 
something very queer about the look of your 
eyes.” 

“ Come,” said I, “ you can’t put us all to bed. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


53 


you know. You had better listen and hear the 
symptoms in full.” 

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, but he 
listened to me patiently. He did not believe a 
word of the story, that was clear ; but he heard it 
all from beginning to end. “ My dear fellow,” 
he said, “ the boy told me just the same. It ’s 
an epidemic. When one person falls a victim to 
this sort of thing, it ’s as safe as can be, — there ’s 
always two or three.” 

‘‘Then how do you account for it? ” I said. 

“ Oh, account for it ! — that ’s a different mat- 
ter ; there ’s no accounting for the freaks our 
brains are subject to. If it ’s delusion, if it ’s 
some trick of the echoes or the winds, — some 
phonetic disturbance or other — ” 

“ Come with me to-night, and judge for your- 
self,” I said. 

Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, “ That ’s 
not such a bad idea ; but it would ruin me for- 
ever if it were known that John Simson was 
ghost-hunting.” 

“ There it is,” said I ; “ you dart down on us 
who are unlearned with your phonetic disturb- 
ances, but you dare n’t examine what the thing 
really is for fear of being laughed at. That’s 
science ! ” 


54 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


“ It 's not science, — it ’s common- sense,” said 
the Doctor. “The thing has delusion on the 
front of it. It is encouraging an unwholesome 
tendency even to examine. What good could 
come of it? Even if I am convinced, I should n’t 
believe.” 

“ I should have said so yesterday ; and I don’t 
want you to be convinced or to believe,” said I. 
“ If you prove it to be a delusion, I shall be very 
much obliged to you for one. Come ; somebody 
must go with me.” 

“ You are cool,” said the Doctor. “You ’ve dis- 
abled this poor fellow of yours, and made him — 
on that point — a lunatic for life; and now you 
want to disable me. But, for once, I ’ll do it. To 
save appearance, if you ’ll give me a bed, I ’ll 
come over after my last rounds.” 

It was agreed that I should meet him at the 
gate, and that we should visit the scene of last 
night’s occurrences before we came to the house, 
so that nobody might be the wiser. It was 
scarcely possible to hope that the cause of Bag- 
ley’s sudden illness should not somehow steal into 
the knowledge of the servants at least, and it was 
better that all should be done as quietly as pos- 
sible. The day seemed to me a very long one. I 
had to spend a certain part of it with Roland, 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


55 


which was a terrible ordeal for me, for what 
could I say to the boy ? The improvement con- 
tinued, but he was still in a very precarious state, 
and the trembling vehemence with which he 
turned to me when his mother left the room 
filled me with alarm. “Father?” he said quietly. 
“ Yes, my boy, I am giving my best attention to 
it ; all is being done that I can do. I have not 
come to any conclusion — yet. I am neglecting 
nothing you said,” I cried. What I could not do 
was to give his active mind any encouragement 
to dwell upon the mystery. It was a hard pre- 
dicament, for some satisfaction had to be given 
him. He looked at me very wistfully, with the 
great blue eyes which shone so large and bril- 
liant out of his white and worn face. “ You must 
trust me,” I said. “Yes, father. Father under- 
stands,” he said to himself, as if to soothe some 
inward doubt. I left him as soon as I could. 
He was about the most precious thing I had on 
earth, and his health my first thought ; but yet 
somehow, in the excitement of this other sub- 
ject, I put that aside, and preferred not to 
dwell upon Roland, which was the most curious 
part of it all. 

That night at eleven I met Simson at the gate. 
He had come by train, and I let him in gently 


56 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


myself. I had been so much absorbed in the 
coming experiment that I passed the ruins in 
going to meet him, almost without thought, if you 
can understand that. I had my lantern ; and he 
showed me a coil of taper which he had ready for 
use. “ There is nothing like light,” he said, in his 
scoffing tone. It was a very still night, scarcely 
a sound, but not so dark. We could keep the 
path without difficulty as we went along. As we 
approached the spot we could hear a low moaning, 
broken occasionally by a bitter cry. Perhaps 
that is your voice,” said the Doctor ; “ I thought 
it must be something of the kind. That ’s a poor 
brute caught in some of these infernal traps of 
yours ; you ’ll find it among the bushes some- 
where.” I said nothing. I felt no particular 
fear, but a triumphant satisfaction in what was to 
follow. I led him to the spot where Bagley and 
I had stood on the previous night. All was 
silent as a winter night could be, — so silent that 
we heard far off the sound of the horses in the 
stables, the shutting of a window at the house. 
Simson lighted his taper and went peering about, 
poking into all the corners. We looked like two 
conspirators lying in wait for some unfortunate 
traveller ; but not a sound broke the quiet. 
The moaning had stopped before we came up ; 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


57 


a star or two shone over us in the sky, looking 
down as if surprised at our strange proceedings. 
Dr. Simson did nothing but utter subdued laughs 
under his breath. I thought as much,” he 
said. “ It is just the same with tables and all 
other kinds of ghostly apparatus; a sceptic’s 
presence stops everything. When I am pres- 
ent nothing ever comes off. How long do you 
think it will be necessary to stay here? Oh, 
I don’t complain ; only when you are satisfied, 
/ am — quite.” 

I will not deny that I was disappointed beyond 
measure by this result. It made me look like a 
credulous fool. It gave the Doctor such a pull 
over me as nothing else could. I should point all 
his morals for years to come ; and his materialism, 
his scepticism, would be increased beyond endur- 
ance. “ It seems, indeed,” I said, “that there is to 
be no — ” “Manifestation,” he said, laughing; 
“that is what all the mediums say. No manifes- 
tations, in consequence of the presence of an un- 
believer.” His laugh sounded very uncomfortable 
to me in the silence ; and it was now near mid- 
night. But that laugh seemed the signal ; before 
it died away the moaning we had heard before was 
resumed. It started from some distance off, and 
came towards us, nearer and nearer, like some 


58 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


one walking along and moaning to himself. 
There could be no idea now that it was a hare 
caught in a trap. The approach was slow, like 
that of a weak person, with little halts and pauses. 
We heard it coming along the grass straight 
towards the vacant door-way. Simson had been 
a little startled by the first sound. He said 
hastily, “ That child has no business to be out so 
late.” But he felt> as well as I, that this was no 
child’s voice. As it came nearer, he grew silent, 
and, going to the door-way with his taper, stood 
looking out towards the sound. The taper being 
unprotected blew about in the night air, though 
there was scarcely any wind. I threw the light 
of my lantern steady and white across the same 
space. It was in a blaze of light in the midst of 
the blackness. A little icy thrill had gone over 
me at the first sound, but as it came close, I 
confess that my only feeling was satisfaction. 
The scoffer could scoff no more. The light 
touched his own face, and showed a very per- 
plexed countenance. If he was afraid, he con- 
cealed it with great success, but he was perplexed. 
And then all that had happened on the previous 
night was enacted once more. It fell strangely 
upon me with a sense of repetition. Every cry, 
every sob seemed the same as before. I listened 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


59 


almost without any emotion at all in my own 
person, thinking of its effect upon Simson. He 
maintained a very bold front, on the whole. All 
that coming and going of the voice was, if our 
ears could be trusted, exactly in front of the 
vacant, blank door-way, blazing full of liglit, 
which caught and shone in the glistening leaves 
of the great hollies at a little distance. N.ot a 
rabbit could have crossed the turf without being 
seen ; but there was nothing. After a time, 
Simson, with a certain caution and bodily reluc- 
tance, as it seemed to me, went out with his 
roll of taper into this space. His figure showed 
against the holly in full outline. Just at this 
moment the voice sank, as was its custom, and 
seemed to fling itself down at the door. Simson 
recoiled violently, as if some one had come up 
against him, then turned, and held his taper low, 
as if examining something. ‘‘ Do you see any- 
body ? ” I cried in a whisper, feeling the chill of 
nervous panic steal over me at this action. “ It ’s 
nothing but a — confounded juniper-bush,” he 
said. This I knew very well to be nonsense, 
for the juniper-bush was on the other side. He 
went about after this round and round, poking 
his taper everywhere, then returned to me on 
the inner side of the wall. He scoffed no longer ; 


6o 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


his face was contracted and pale. How long 
does this go on?” he whispered to me, like a 
man who does not wish to interrupt some one 
who is speaking. I had become too much per- 
turbed myself to remark whether the successions 
and changes of the voice were the same as last 
night. It suddenly went out in the air almost 
as he was speaking, with a soft reiterated sob 
dying away. If there had been anything to be 
seen, I should have said that the person was at 
that moment crouching on the ground close to 
the door. 

We walked home very silent afterwards. It 
was only when we were in sight of the house that 
I said, “What do you think of it?” “I can’t 
tell what to think of it,” he said quickly. He 
took — though he was a very temperate man — 
not the claret I was going to offer him, but some 
brandy from the tray, and swallowed it almost 
undiluted. “ Mind you, I don’t believe a word 
of it,” he said, when he had lighted his candle ; 
“but I can’t tell what to think,” he turned round 
to add, when he was half-way upstairs. 

All of this, however, did me no good with the 
solution of my problem. I was to help this weep- 
ing, sobbing thing, which was already to me 
as distinct a personality as anything I knew; 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


6i 


or what should I say to Roland ? It was on my 
heart that my boy would die if I could not find 
some way of helping this creature. You may be 
surprised that I should speak of it in this way. 
I did not know if it was man or woman ; but I 
no more doubted that it was a soul in pain than 
I doubted my own being ; and it was my busi- 
ness to soothe this pain, — to deliver it, if that 
was possible. Was ever such a task given to an 
anxious father trembling for his only boy ? I felt 
in my heart, fantastic as it may appear, that I 
must fulfil this somehow, or part with my child ; 
and you may conceive that rather than do that I 
was ready to die. But even my dying would not 
have advanced me, unless by bringing me into 
the same world with that seeker at the door. 


Next morning Simson was out before break- 
fast, and came in with evident signs of the 
damp grass on his boots, and a look of worry 
and weariness, which did not say much for the 
night he had passed. He improved a little 
after breakfast, and visited his two patients, 
— for Bagley was still an invalid. I went out 
with him on his way to the train, to hear what 


62 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


he had to say about the boy. “ He is going 
on very well,” he said ; “ there are no compli- 
cations as yet. But mind you, that ’s not a 
boy to be trifled with, Mortimer. Not a word 
to him about last night.” I had to tell him 
then of my last interview with Roland, and of 
the impossible demand he had made upon me, 
by which, though he tried to laugh, he was 
much discomposed, as I could see. “ We must 
just perjure ourselves all round,” he said, “and 
swear you exorcised it ; ” but the man was too 
kind-hearted to be satisfied with that. “ It ’s 
frightfully serious for you, Mortimer. I can’t 
laugh as I should like to. I wish I saw a way 
out of it, for your sake. By the way,” he 
added shortly, “did n’t you notice that juniper- 
bush on the left-hand side ? ” “ There was 

one on the right hand of the door. I noticed 
you made that mistake last night.” “ Mistake ! ” 
he cried, wdth a curious low laugh, pulling up 
the collar of his coat as though he felt the cold, 
— “there ’s no. juniper there this morning, left 
or right. Just go and see.” As he stepped 
into the train a few minutes after, he looked 
back upon me and beckoned me for a parting 
word. “ I ’m coming back to-night,” he said. 

I don’t think I had any feeling about this as 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


63 


I turned away from that common bustle of the 
railway which made my private preoccupations 
feel so strangely out of date. There had been 
a distinct satisfaction in my mind before, that 
his scepticism had been so entirely defeated. 
But the more serious part of the matter 
pressed upon me now. I went straight from 
the railway to the manse, which stood on a little 
plateau on the side of the river opposite to the 
woods of Brentwood. The minister was one 
of a class which is not so common in Scotland 
as it used to be. He was a man of good fam- 
ily, well educated in the Scotch way, strong in 
philosophy, not so strong in Greek, strongest 
of all in experience, — a man who had ^‘come 
across,” in the course of his life, most people 
of note that had ever been in Scotland, and 
who was said to be very sound in doctrine, 
w’ithout infringing the toleration with which 
old men, who are good men, are generally 
endowed. He was old-fashioned ; perhaps he 
did not think so much about the troublous 
problems of theology as many of the young 
men, nor ask himself any hard questions 
about the Confession of Faith ; but he un- 
derstood human nature, which is perhaps bet- 
ter. He received me with a cordial welcome. 


64 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


“ Come away, Colonel Mortimer,” he said ; 
“ I ’m all the more glad to see you, that I 
feel it ’s a good sign for the boy. He ’s 
doing well .? — God be praised, — and the 
Lord bless him and keep him. He has 
many a poor body’s prayers, and that can 
do nobody harm.” 

“ He will need them all. Dr. Moncrieff,” I 
said, “ and your counsel too.” And I told him 
the story, — more than I had told Simson. 
The old clergyman listened to me with many 
suppressed exclamations, and at the end the 
water stood in his eyes. 

“ That ’s just beautiful,” he said. “ I do not 
mind to have heard anything like it ; it ’s as 
fine as Burns when he wished deliverance to 
one — that is prayed for in no kirk. Ay, ay ! 
so he would have you console the poor lost 
spirit ? God bless the boy ! There ’s some- 
thing more than common in that. Colonel 
Mortimer. And also the faith of him in his 
father ! — I would like to put that into a ser- 
mon.” Then the old gentleman gave me an 
alarmed look, and said, “ No, no ; I was not 
meaning a sermon ; but I must write it down 
for the ‘ Children’s Record.’ ” I saw the 
thought that passed through his mind. Either 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


65 


he thought, or he feared I would think, of a 
funeral sermon. You may believe this did not 
make me more cheerful. 

I can scarcely say that Dr. Moncrieff gave 
me any advice. How could any one advise on 
such a subject But he said, “ I think I ’ll 
come too. I ’m an old man ; I ’m less liable 
to be frighted than those that are further off the 
world unseen. It behooves me to think of my 
own journey there. I ’ve no cut-and-dry beliefs 
on the subject. 1 ’ll come too ; and maybe at 
the moment the Lord will put into our heads 
what to do.” 

This gave me a little comfort, — more than 
Simson had given me. To be clear about the 
cause of it was not my grand desire. It was 
another thing that was in my mind, — my boy. 
As for the poor soul at the open door, I had no 
more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than 
I had of my own. It was no ghost to me. I 
knew the creature, and it was in trouble. That 
was my feeling about it, as it was Roland’s. 
To hear it first was a great shock to my nerves, 
but not now ; a man will get accustomed to 
anything. But to do something for it was the 
great problem ; how was I to be serviceable to 
a being that was invisible, that was mortal no 
5 


66 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


longer ? “ Maybe at the moment the Lord 

will put it into our heads.” This is very old- 
fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most 
likely, I should have smiled (though always 
with kindness) at Dr. Moncrieff’s credulity; 
but there was a great comfort, whether rational 
or otherwise I cannot say, in the mere sound 
of the words. 

The road to the station and the village 
lay through the glen, not by the ruins ; but 
though the sunshine and the fresh air, and the 
beauty of the trees, and the sound of the water 
were all very soothing to' the spirits, my mind 
was so full of my own subject that I could not 
refrain from turning to the right hand as I got 
to the top of the glen, and going straight to 
the place which I may call the scene of all my 
thoughts. It was lying full in the sunshine, 
like all the rest of the world. The ruined 
gable looked due east, and in the present 
aspect of the sun the light streamed down 
through the door-way as our lantern had 
done, throwing a flood of light upon the 
damp grass beyond. There was a strange 
suggestion in the open door, — so futile, a 
kind of emblem of vanity: all free around, so 
that you could go where you pleased, and yet 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


67 


that semblance of an enclosure, — that way of 
entrance, unnecessary, leading to nothing. And 
why any creature should pray and weep to get 
in — to nothing, or be kept out — by nothing ! 
You could not dwell upon it, or it made your 
brain go round. I remembered, however, what 
Simson said about the juniper, with a little 
smile on my own mind as to the inaccuracy of 
recollection which even a scientific man will 
be guilty of. I could see now the light of my 
lantern gleaming upon the wet glistening sur- 
face of the spiky leaves at the right hand, — 
and he ready to go to the stake for it that it was 
the left ! I went round to make sure. And then 
I saw what he had said. Right or left there 
w'as no juniper at all ! I was confounded by 
this, though it was entirely a matter of detail : 
nothing at all, — a bush of brambles waving, 
the grass growing up to the very walls. But 
after all, though it gave me a shock for a 
moment, what did that matter There were 
marks as if a number of footsteps had been up 
and down in front of the door, but these might 
have been our steps ; and all was bright and 
peaceful and- still. I poked about the other 
ruin — the larger ruins of the old house — 
for some time, as I had done before. There 


68 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


were marks upon the grass here and there — 
I could not call them footsteps — all about ; 
but that told for nothing one way or another. 
I had examined the ruined rooms closely the 
first day. They were half filled up with soil 
and debris, withered brackens and bramble, — 
no refuge for any one there. It vexed me 
that Jarvis should see me coming from that 
spot when he came up to me for his orders. 
I don’t know w'hether my nocturnal expedi- 
tions had got wind among the servants. But 
there was a significant look in his face. Some- 
thing in it I felt was like my own sensation 
when Simson in the midst of his scepticism 
was struck dumb. Jarvis felt satisfied that 
his veracity had been put beyond question. I 
never spoke to a servant of mine in such a 
peremptory tone before. I sent him away 
with a flea in his lug,” as the man described 
it afterwards. Interference of any kind was 
intolerable to me at such a moment. 

But what was strangest of all was, that I 
could not face Roland. I did not go up to his 
room, as I would have naturally done, at once. 
This the girls could not understand. They 
saw there was some mystery in it. “Mother 
has gone to lie down,” Agatha said ; “ he has 


THE OPEN DOOR.' 69 

had such a good night.” “ But he wants you 
so, papa ! ” cried little Jeanie, always with her 
two arms embracing mine in a pretty way she 
had. I was obliged to go at last, but what 
could I say } I could only kiss him, and tell 
him to keep still, — that I was doing all I 
could. There is something mystical about the 
patience of a child. “ It will come all right, 
won’t it, father ? ” he said. “ God grant it 
may ! I hope so, Roland.” “ Oh, yes, it will 
come all right.” Perhaps he understood that 
in the midst of my anxiety I could not stay 
with him as I should have done otherwise. 
But the girls were more surprised than it is 
possible to describe. They looked at me with 
wondering eyes. “If I were ill, papa, and you 
only stayed with me a moment, I should break 
my heart,” said Agatha. But the boy had a 
sympathetic feeling. He knew that of my 
own will 1 would not have done it. I shut 
myself up in the library, where I could not 
rest, but kept pacing up and down like a caged 
beast. What could I do ? and if I could do 
nothing, what would become of my boy ? 
These were the questions that, without ceas- 
ing, pursued each other through my mind. 

Simson came out to dinner, and when the 


70 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


house was all still, and most of the servants in 
bed, we went out and met Dr. Moncrieff, as 
we had appointed, at the head of the glen. 
Simson, for his part, was disposed to scoff at 
the Doctor. “ If there are to be any spells, 
you know. I’ll cut the whole concern,” he 
said. I did not make him any reply. I had 
not invited him ; he could go or come as he 
pleased. He was very talkative, far more so 
than suited my humor, as we went on. “ One 
thing is certain, you know; there must be 
some human agency,” he said. “ It is all bosh 
about apparitions. I never have investigated 
the laws of sound to any great extent, and 
there ’s a great deal in ventriloquism that we 
don’t know much about.” “ If it ’s the same 
to you,” I said, “ I wish you ’d keep all that to 
yourself, Simson. It does n’t suit my state of 
mind.” “ Oh, I hope I know how to respect 
idiosyncrasy,” he said. The very tone of his 
voice irritated me beyond measure. These 
scientific fellows, I wonder people put up with 
them as they do, when you have no mind for 
their cold-blooded confidence. Dr. Moncrieff 
met us about eleven o’clock, the same time as 
on the previous night. He was a large man, 
with a venerable countenance and white hair. 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


71 


— old, but in full vigor, and thinking less of a 
cold night walk than many a younger man. 
He had his lantern, as I had. We were fully 
provided with means of lighting the place, and 
we were all of us resolute men. We had a 
rapid consultation as we went up, and the result 
was that we divided to diiferent posts. Dr. 
Moncrieif remained inside the wall — if you 
can call that inside where there was no wall 
but one. Simson placed himself on the side 
next the ruins, so as to intercept any communi- 
cation with the old house, which was what his 
mind was fixed upon. I was posted on the 
other side. To say that nothing could come 
near without being seen was self-evident. It 
had been so also on the previous night. Now, 
with our three lights in the midst of the dark- 
ness, the whole place seemed illuminated. Dr. 
Moncrieff’s lantern, which was a large one, 
without any means of shutting up, — an old- 
fashioned lantern with a pierced and ornamen- 
tal top, — shone steadily, the rays shooting out 
of it upward into the gloom. He placed it on 
the grass, where the middle of the room, if this 
had been a room, would have been. The 
usual effect of the light streaming out of the 
door-way was prevented by the illumination 


72 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


which Simson and I on either side supplied. 
With these differences, everything seemed as 
on the previous night. 

And what occurred was exactly the same, with 
the same air of repetition, point for point, as I 
had formerly remarked. I declare that it seemed 
to me as if I were pushed against, put aside, by 
the owner of the voice as he paced up and down 
in his trouble, — though these are perfectly futile 
words, seeing that the stream of light from my 
lantern, and that from Simson’s taper, lay broad 
and clear, without a shadow, without the smallest 
break, across the entire breadth of the grass. I 
had ceased even to be alarmed, for my part. My 
heart was rent with pity and trouble, — pity for 
the poor suffering human creature that moaned 
and pleaded so, and trouble for myself and my 
boy. God ! if I could not find any help, — and 
what help could I find ? — Roland would die. 

We were all perfectly still till the first out- 
burst was exhausted, as I knew, by experience, 
it would be. Dr. Moncrieff, to whom it was new, 
was quite motionless on the other side of the wall, 
as we were in our places. My heart had remained 
almost at its usual beating during the voice. I 
was used to it ; it did not rouse all my pulses as 
it did at first. But just as it threw itself sobbing 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


73 


at the door (I cannot use other words), there 
suddenly came something which sent the blood 
coursing through my veins, and my heart into 
my mouth. It was a voice inside the wall, — 
the minister’s well-known voice. I would have 
been prepared for it in any kind of adjuration, 
but I was not prepared for what I heard. It 
came out with a sort of stammering, as if too 
much moved for utterance. “ Willie, Willie ! 
Oh, God preserve us ! is it you? ” 

These simple words had an effect upon me that 
the voice of the invisible creature had ceased to 
have. I thought the old man, whom I had 
brought into this danger, had gone mad with 
terror. I made a dash round to the other side 
of the wall, half crazed myself with the thought. 
He was standing where I had left him, his shadow 
thrown vague and large upon the grass by the 
lantern which stood at his feet. I lifted my own 
light to see his face as I rushed forward. He was 
very pale, his eyes wet and glistening, his mouth 
quivering with parted lips. He neither saw nor 
heard me. We that had gone through this expe- 
rience before, had crouched towards each other 
to get a little strength to bear it. . But he was 
not even aware that I was there. His whole 
being seemed absorbed in anxiety and tenderness. 


74 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


He held out his hands, which trembled, but 
it seemed to me with eagerness, not fear. He 
went on speaking all the time. ‘‘Willie, if it 
is you, — and it ’s you, if it is not a delusion of 
Satan, — Willie, lad ! why come ye here frighting 
them that know you not? Why came ye not to 
me?” 

He seemed to wait for an answer. When his 
voice ceased, his countenance, every line moving, 
continued to speak. Simson gave me another 
terrible shock, stealing into the open door-way 
with his light, as much awe-stricken, as wildly 
curious, as I. But the minister resumed, without 
seeing Simson, speaking to some one else. His 
voice took a tone of expostulation : — 

‘‘ Is this right to come here ? Your mother ’s 
gone with your name on her lips. Do you think 
she would ever close her door on her own lad? 
Do ye think the Lord will close the door, ye faint- 
hearted creature? No ! — I forbid ye ! I forbid 
ye ! ” cried the old man. The sobbing voice had 
begun to resume its cries. He made a step for- 
ward, calling out the last words in a voice of 
command. “ I forbid ye ! Cry out no more to 
man. Go home, ye wandering spirit ! go home ! 
Do you hear me ? — me that christened ye, that 
have struggled with ye, that have wrestled for ye 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


75 


with the Lord ! ” Here the loud tones of his 
voice sank into tenderness. “ And her too, poor 
woman ! poor woman ! her you are calling upon. 
She ’s no here. You ’ll find her with the Lord. 
Go there and seek her, not here. Do you hear 
me, lad ? go after her there. He ’ll let you in, 
though it ’s late. Man, take heart 1 if you will lie 
and sob and greet, let it be at heaven’s gate, and 
no your poor mother’s ruined door.” 

He stopped to get his breath ; and the voice 
had stopped, not as it had done before, when its 
time was exhausted and all its repetitions said, 
but with a sobbing catch in the breath as if over- 
ruled. Then the minister spoke again, “ Are you 
hearing me. Will ? Oh, laddie, you ’ve liked the 
beggarly elements all your days. Be done with 
them now. Go home to the Father — the Father ! 
Are you hearing me? ” Here the old man sank 
down upon his knees, his face raised upwards, his 
hands held up with a tremble in them, all white 
in the light in the midst of the darkness. I 
resisted as long as I could, though I cannot tell 
why; then I, too, dropped upon my knees. 
Simson all the time stood in the door-way, with 
an expression in his face such as words could not 
tell, his under lip dropped, his eyes wild, staring. 
It seemed to be to him, that image of blank 


76 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


ignorance and wonder, that we were praying. All 
the time the voice, with a low arrested sobbing, 
lay just where he was standing, as I thought. 

Lord,” the minister said, — ^‘Lord, take him 
into Thy everlasting habitations. The mother 
he cries to is with Thee. Who can open to him 
but Thee ? Lord, when is it too late for Thee, 
or what is too hard for Thee? Lord, let that 
woman there draw him inower ! Let her draw 
him inower ! ” 

I sprang forward to catch something in my 
arms that flung itself wildly within the door. The 
illusion was so strong, that I never paused till 
I felt my forehead graze against the wall and my 
hands clutch the ground, — for there was nobody 
there to save from falling, as in my foolishness 
I thought. Simson held out his hand to me to 
help me up. He was trembling and cold, his 
lower lip hanging, his speech almost inarticulate. 
^Tt ’s gone,” he said, stammering, — “ it ’s gone ! ” 
We leaned upon each other for a moment, trem- 
bling so much, both of us, that the whole scene 
trembled as if it were going to dissolve and dis- 
appear; and yet as long as I live I will never 
forget it, — the shining of the strange lights, the 
blackness all round, the kneeling figure with all 
the whiteness of the light concentrated on its 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


77 


white venerable head and uplifted hands. A 
strange solemn stillness seemed to close all round 
us. By intervals a single syllable, “ Lord ! Lord ! ” 
came from the old minister’s lips. He saw none 
of us, nor thought of us. I never knew how long 
we stood, like sentinels guarding him at his 
prayers, holding our lights in a confused dazed 
way, not knowing what we did. But at last he 
rose from his knees, and standing up at his full 
height, raised his arms, as the Scotch manner is 
at the end of a religious service, and solemnly 
gave the apostolical benediction, — to what ? to 
the silent earth, the dark woods, the wide breath- 
ing atmosphere ; for we were but spectators 
gasping* an Amen ! 

It seemed to me that it must be the middle of 
the night, as we all walked back. It was in reality 
very late. Dr. Moncrieff put his arm into mine. 
He walked slowly, with an air of exhaustion. It 
was as if we were coming from a death-bed. 
Something hushed and solemnized the very air. 
There was that sense of relief in it which there 
always is at the end of a death-struggle. And 
nature, persistent, never daunted, came back in 
all of us, as we returned into the ways of life. 
We said nothing to each other, indeed, for a 
time ; but when we got clear of the trees and 


78 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


reached the opening near the house, where we 
could see the sky, Dr. Moncrieff himself was the 
first to speak. “ I must be going,” he said ; 
“ it ’s very late, I ’m afraid. I will go down the 
glen, as I came.” 

“ But not alone. I am going with you, Doc- 
tor.” 

*‘'Well, I will not oppose it. I am an old 
man, and agitation wearies more than work. 
Yes; I’ll be thankful of your arm. To-night, 
Colonel, you’ve done me more good turns 
than one.” 

I pressed his hand on my arm, not feeling 
able to speak. But Simson, who turned with us, 
and who had gone along all this time with his 
taper flaring, in entire unconsciousness, came to 
himself, apparently at the sound of our voices, 
and put out that wild little torch with a quick 
movement, as if of shame. Let me carry 
your lantern,” he said ; “it is heavy.” He re- 
covered with a spring ; and in a moment, from 
the awe-stricken spectator he had been, became 
himself, sceptical and cynical. “ I should like 
to ask you a question,” he said. “ Do you 
believe in Purgatory, Doctor.? It’s not in the 
tenets of the Church, so far as I know.” 

“Sir,” said Dr. Moncrieff, “an old man like 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


79 


me is sometimes not very sure what he believes. 
There is just one thing I am certain of — and 
that is the loving-kindness of God.” 

“ But I thought that was in this life. I am 
no theologian — ” 

“ Sir,” said the old man again, with a tremor 
in him which I could feel going over all his 
frame, “if I saw a friend of mine within the 
gates of hell, I would not despair but his Fa- 
ther would take him by the hand still, if he 
cried WVq yony 

“I allow it is very strange, very strange. 
I cannot see through it. That there must be 
human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made 
you decide upon the person and the name ? ” 

The minister put out his hand with the im- 
patience which a man might show if he were 
asked how he recognized his brother. “ Tuts ! ” 
he said, in familiar speech; then more solemnly, 
“ How should I not recognize a person that I 
know better — far better — than I know you ?” 

“ Then you saw the man ? ” 

Dr. Moncrieff made no reply. He moved 
his hand again with a little impatient move- 
ment, and walked on, leaning heavily on my 
arm. And we went on for a long time without 
another word, threading the dark paths, which 


8o 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


were steep and slippery with the damp of the 
winter. The air was very still, — not more 
than enough to make a faint sighing in the 
branches, which mingled with the sound of the 
water to which we were descending. When we 
spoke again, it was about indifferent matters, — 
about the height of the river, and the recent 
rains. We parted with the minister at his own 
door, where his old housekeeper appeared in 
great perturbation, waiting for him. “ Eh, me, 
minister ! the young gentleman will be worse } ” 
she cried. 

“ Far from that — better. God bless him ! ” 
Dr. Moncrieff said. 

I think if Simson had begun again to me with 
his questions, I should have pitched him over the 
rocks as we returned up the glen ; but he was 
silent, by a good inspiration. And the sky was 
clearer than it had been for many nights, shining 
high over the trees, with here and there a star 
faintly gleaming through the wilderness of dark 
and bare branches. The air, as I have said, was 
very soft in them, with a subdued and peaceful 
cadence. It was real, like every natural sound, 
and came to us like a hush of peace and relief. 
I thought there was a sound in it as of the breath 
of a sleeper, and it seemed clear to me that 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


8l 


Roland must be sleeping, satisfied and calm. We 
went up to his room when we went in. There 
we found the complete hush of rest. My wife 
looked up out of a doze, and gave me a smile : 
“ I think he is a great deal better ; but you are 
very late,” she said in a whisper, shading the 
light with her hand that the Doctor might see 
his patient. The boy had got back something 
like his own color. He woke as we stood all 
round his bed. His eyes had the happy, half- 
awakened look of childhood, glad to shut again, 
yet pleased with the interruption and glimmer of 
the light. I stooped over him and kissed his 
forehead, which was moist and cool. “ All is 
well, Roland,” I said. He looked up at me with 
a glance of pleasure, and took my hand and laid 
his cheek upon it, and so went to sleep. 


For some nights after, I watched among the 
ruins, spending all the dark hours up to midnight 
patrolling about the bit of wall which was associa- 
ted with so many emotions ; but I heard nothing, 
and saw nothing beyond the quiet course of na- 
ture ; nor, so far as I am aware, has anything been 
heard again. Dr. Moncrieff gave me the history 
6 


82 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


of the youth, whom he never hesitated to name. 
I did not ask, as Simson did, how he recognized 
him. He had been a prodigal, — weak, foolish, 
easily imposed upon, and “led away,” as people 
say. All that we had heard had passed actually 
in life, the Doctor said. The young man had 
come home thus a day or two after his mother 
died, — who was no more than the housekeeper in 
the old house, — and distracted with the news, had 
thrown himself down at the door and called upon 
her to let him in. The old man could scarcely 
speak of it for tears. To me it seemed as if — 
Heaven help us, how little do we know about 
anything ! — a scene like that might impress itself 
somehow upon the hidden heart of nature. I do 
not pretend to know how, but the repetition had 
struck me at the time as, in its terrible strange- 
ness and incomprehensibility, almost mechanical, 
— as if the unseen actor could not exceed or vary, 
but was bound to re-enact the whole. One thing 
that struck me, however, greatly, was the likeness 
between the old minister and my boy in the man- 
ner of regarding these strange phenomena. Dr. 
Moncrieff was not terrified, as I had been myself, 
and all the rest of us. It was no “ ghost,” as I fear 
we all vulgarly considered it, to him, — but a poor 
creature whom he knew under these conditions, 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


83 


just as he had known him in the flesh, having no 
doubt of his identity. And to Roland it was the 
same. This spirit in pain, — if it was a spirit, — 
this voice out of the unseen, — was a poor fellow- 
creature in misery, to be succored and helped 
out of his trouble, to my boy. He spoke to 
me quite frankly about it when he got better. 
‘‘ I knew father would find out some way,” he 
said. And this was when he was strong and 
well, and all idea that he would turn hysterical 
or become a seer of visions had happily passed 
away. 


I must add one curious fact, which does not 
seem to me to have any relation to the above, but 
which Simson made great use of, as the human 
agency which he was determined to find somehow. 
We had examined the ruins very closely at the 
time of these occurrences ; but afterwards, when 
all was over, as we went casually about them one 
Sunday afternoon in the idleness of that unem- 
ployed day, Simson with his stick penetrated an 
old window which had been entirely blocked up 
with fallen soil. He jumped down into it in great 
excitement, and called me to follow. There we 
found a little hole, — for it was more a hole than a 


84 


THE OPEN DOOR. 


room, — entirely hidden under the ivy and ruins, 
in which there was a quantity of straw laid in a 
corner, as if some one had made a bed there, and 
some remains of crusts about the floor. Some 
one had lodged there, and not very long before, he 
made out ; and that this unknown being was the 
author of all the mysterious sounds we heard he 
is convinced. “ I told you it was human agency,” 
he said triumphantly. He forgets, I suppose, how 
he and I stood with our lights, seeing nothing, 
while the space between us was audibly traversed 
by something that could speak, and sob, and suf- 
fer. There is no argument with men of this kind. 
He is ready to get up a laugh against me on 
this slender ground. “ I was puzzled myself, — 
I could not make it out, — but I . always felt 
convinced human agency was at the bottom of 
it. And here it is, — and a clever fellow he 
must have been,” the Doctor says. 

Bagley left my service as soon as he got well. 
He assured me it was no want of respect, but he 
could not stand them kind of things ; ” and the 
man was so shaken and ghastly that I was glad to 
give him a present and let him go. For my own 
part, I made a point of staying out the time — 
two years — for which I had taken Brentwood ; 
but I did not renew my tenancy. By that time 


THE OPEN DOOR. 85 

we had settled, and found for ourselves a pleasant 
home of our own. 

I must add, that when the Doctor defies me, I 
can always bring back gravity to his countenance, 
and a pause in his railing, when I remind him of 
the juniper-bush. To me that was a matter of 
little importance. I could believe I was mistaken. 
I did not care about it one way or other ; but on 
his mind the effect was different. The miserable 
voice, the spirit in pain,‘ he could think of as the 
result of ventriloquism, or reverberation, or — 
anything you please : an elaborate prolonged 
hoax, executed somehow by the tramp that had 
found a lodging in the old tower ; but the juniper- 
bush staggered him. Things have effects so 
different on the minds of different men. 





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THE PORTRAIT. 


T the period when the following: incidents 



l\, occurred, I was living with my father at 
The Grove, a large old house in the immediate 
neighborhood of a litde town. This had been 
his home for a number of years ; and I believe I 
was born in it. It was a kind of house which, 
notwithstanding all the red and white architect- 
ure known at present by the name of Queen 
Anne, builders nowadays have forgotten how to 
build. It was straggling and irregular,, with wide, 
passages, wide staircases, broad landings ; the. 
rooms large but not very lofty ; the arrangements 
leaving much to, be desired, with no economy of 
space ; a house belonging to a period when land 
was cheap, and, so far as that was concerned, 
there was no occasion to economize. Though 
it was so near the town, the clump of trees in 
which it was environed was a veritable grove. 


90 


THE PORTRAIT. 


In the grounds in spring the primroses grew as 
thickly as in the forest. We had a few fields for 
the cows, and an excellent walled garden. The 
place is being pulled down at this moment to 
make room for more streets of mean little 
houses, — the kind of thing, and not a dull house 
of faded gentry, which perhaps the neighborhood 
requires. The house was dull, and so were we, 
its last inhabitants ; and the furniture was faded, 
even a little dingy, — nothing to brag of. I do 
not, however, intend to convey a suggestion that 
we were faded gentry, for that was not the case. 
My father, indeed, was rich, and had no need to 
spare any expense in making his life and his 
house bright if he pleased ; but he did not 
please, and I had not been long enough at home 
to exercise any special influence of my own. It 
was the only home I had ever known ; but 
except in my earliest childhood, and in my holi- 
days as a schoolboy, I had in reality known but 
little of it. My mother had died at my birth, or 
shortly after, and I had grown up in the gravity 
and silence of a house without women. In my 
infancy, I believe, a sister of my father’s had lived 
with us, and taken charge of the household and 
of me ; but she, too, had died long, long ago, my 
mourning for her being one of the first things I 


THE PORTRAIT. 


91 


could recollect. And she had no successor. 
There were, indeed, a housekeeper and some 
maids, — the latter of whom I only saw disap- 
pearing at the end of a passage, or whisking out of 
a room when one of the gentlemen ” appeared. 
Mrs. Weir, indeed, I saw nearly every day ; but 
a curtsey, a smile, a pair of nice round arms 
which she caressed while folding them across her 
ample waist, and a large white apron, were all I 
knew of her. This was the only female influence 
in the house. The drawing-room I was aware of 
only as a place of deadly good order, into which 
nobody ever entered. It had three long windows 
opening on the lawn, and communicated at the 
upper end, which was rounded like a great bay, 
with the conservatory. Sometimes I gazed into 
it as a child from without, wondering at the 
needlework on the chairs, the screens, the 
looking-glasses which never reflected any living 
face. My father did not like the room, which 
probably was not wonderful, though it never 
occurred to me in those early days to inquire 
why. 

I may say here, though it will probably be 
disappointing to those who form a sentimental 
idea of the capabilities of children, that it did not 
occur to me either, in these early days, to make 


92 


THE PORTRAIT. 


any inquiry about my mother. There was no 
room in life, as I knew it, for any such person ; 
nothing suggested to my mind either the fact 
that she must have existed, or that there was 
need of her in the house. I accepted, as I 
believe most children do, the facts of existence, 
on the basis with which I had first made 
acquaintance with them, without question or 
remark. As a matter of fact, I was aware that 
it was rather dull at home but neither by com- 
parison with the books I read, nor by the 
communications received from* my school-fel- 
lows, did this seem to me anything remarkable. 
And I was possibly somewhat dull too by nature, 
for I did not mind. I was fond of reading, and 
for that there was unbounded opportunity. I 
had a little ambition in respect to work, and 
that too could be prosecuted undisturbed. 
When I went to the university, my society lay 
almost entirely among men ; but by that time and 
afterwards, matters had of course greatly changed 
with me, and though I recognized women as 
part of the economy of nature, and did not 
indeed by any means dislike or avoid them, yet 
the idea of connecting them at all with my own 
home never entered into my head. That con- 
tinued to be as it had always been, when at 


THE PORTRAIT. 


93 


intervals I descended upon the cool, grave, color- 
less place, in the midst of my traffic with the 
world : always very still, well-ordered, serious, — 
the cooking very good, the comfort perfect ; old 
Morphew, the butler, a little older (but very little 
older, perhaps on the whole less old, since in my 
childhood I had thought him a kind of Methu- 
selah) ; and Mrs. Weir, less active, covering up 
her arms in sleeves, but folding and caressing 
them just as always. I remember looking in 
from the lawn through the windows upon that 
deadly-orderly drawing-room, with a humorous 
recollection of my childish admiration and 
wonder, and feeling that it must be kept so 
forever and ever, and that to go into it would 
break some sort of amusing mock mystery, some 
pleasantly ridiculous spell. 

But it was only at rare intervals that I went 
home. In the long vacation, as in my school 
holidays, my father often went abroad with me, 
so that we had gone over a great deal of the 
Continent together very pleasantly. He was old 
in proportion to the age of his son, being a man 
of sixty when I was twenty, but that did not dis- 
turb the pleasure of the relations between us. I 
don’t know that they were ever very confidential. 
On my side there was but little to communicate, 


94 


THE PORTRAIT. 


for I did not get into scrapes nor fall in love, the 
two predicaments which demand sympathy and 
confidences. And as for my father himself, I 
was never aware what there could be to communi- 
cate on his side. I knew his life exactly, — what 
he did almost at every hour of the day ; under 
what circumstances of the temperature he would 
ride and when walk : how often and with what 
guests he would indulge in the occasional break 
of a dinner-party, a serious pleasure, — per- 
haps, indeed, less a pleasure than a duty. All 
this I knew as well as he did, and also his 
views on public matters, his political opinions, 
which naturally were different from mine. What 
ground, then, remained for confidence? I did 
not know any. We were both of us of a re- 
served nature, not apt to enter into our religious 
feelings, for instance. There are many people 
who think reticence on such subjects a sign of 
the most reverential way of contemplating them. 
Of this I am far from being sure ; but, at all 
events, it was the practice most congenial to my 
own mind. 

And then I was for a long time absent, making 
my own way in the world. I did not make it 
very successfully. I accomplished the natural 
fate of an Englishman, and went out to the 


THE PORl'RAIT. 


95 


Colonies ; then to India in a semi-diplomatic 
position ; but returned home after seven or eight 
years, invalided, in bad health and not much 
better spirits, tired and disappointed with my 
first trial of life. I had, as people say, “ no oc- 
casion ” to insist on making my way. My father 
was rich, and had never given me the slightest 
reason to believe that he did not intend me to be 
his heir. His allowance to me was not illiberal, 
and though he did not oppose the carrying 
out of my own plans, he by no means urged 
me to exertion. When I came home he received 
me very affectionately, and expressed his satis- 
faction in my return. Of course,” he said, “ I 
am not glad that you are disappointed, Philip, or 
that your health is broken ; but otherwise it is an 
ill wind, • you know, that blows nobody good ; 
and I am very glad to have you at home. I am 
growing an old man' — ” 

“ I don’t see any difference, sir,” said I ; 
‘‘everything here seems exactly the same as 
when I went away — ” 

He smiled, and shook his head. “ It is true 
enough,” he said; “after we have reached a 
certain age we seem to go on for a long time on 
a plane, and feel no great difference from year 
to year; but it is an inclined plane, and the 


96 


THE PORTRAIT. 


longer we go on the more sudden will be the fall 
at the end. But at all events it will be a great 
comfort to me to have you here.” 

If I had known that,” I said, “ and that you 
wanted me, I should have come in any circum- 
stances. As there are only two of us in the 
world — ” 

“ Yes,” he said, “there are only two of us in 
the world ; but still I should not have sent for 
you, Phil, to interrupt your career.” 

“ It is as well, then, that it has interrupted 
itself,” I said rather bitterly ; for disappointment 
is hard to bear. 

He patted me on the shoulder, and repeated, 
■“ It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” with 
a look of real pleasure which gave me a certain 
gratification too ; for, after all, he was an old 
man, and the only one in all the world to whom 
I owed any duty. I had not been without 
dreams of warmer affections, but they had come 
to nothing — not tragically, but in the ordinary 
way. I might perhaps have had love which 
I did not want, but not that which I did 
want, — which was not a thing to make any 
unmanly moan about, but in the ordinary course 
of events. Such disappointments happen every 
day ; indeed, they are more common than any- 


THE PORTRAIT. 


97 


thing else, and sometimes it is apparent after- 
wards that it is better it was so. 

However, here I was at thirty stranded, yet 
wanting for nothing, — in a position to call forth 
rather envy than pity from the greater part of 
my contemporaries ; for I had an assured and 
comfortable existence, as much money as I 
wanted, and the prospect of an excellent fortune 
for the future. On the other hand, my health 
was still low, and I had no occupation. The 
neighborhood of the town was a drawback rather 
than an advantage. I felt myself tempted, in- 
stead of taking the long walk into the country 
which my doctor recommended, to take a much 
shorter one through the High Street, across the 
river, and back again, which was not a walk but 
a lounge. The country was silent and full of 
thoughts, — thoughts not always very agree- 
able, — whereas there were always the humors 
of the little urban population to glance at, the 
news to be heard, — all those petty matters which 
so often make up life in a very impoverished 
version for the idle man. I did not like it, but 
I felt myself yielding to it, not having energy 
enough to make a stand. The rector and the 
leading lawyer of the place asked me to dinner. 
I might have glided into the society, such as it 
7 


98 


THE PORTRAIT. 


was, had I been disposed for that; everything 
about me began to close over me as if I had 
been fifty, and fully contented with my lot. 

It was possibly my own want of occupation 
which* made me observe with surprise, after a 
while, how much occupied my father was. He 
had expressed himself glad of my return ; but 
now that I had returned, I saw very little of him. 
Most of his time was spent in his library, as had 
always been the case. But on the few visits I 
paid him there, I could not but perceive that the 
aspect of the library was much changed. It had 
acquired the look of a business-room, almost an 
office. There were large business-like books on 
the table, which I could not associate .with any- 
thing he could naturally have to do ; and his 
correspondence was very large. I thought he 
closed one of those books hurriedly as I came 
in, and pushed it away, as if he did not wish me 
to see it. This surprised me at the moment 
without arousing any other feeling; but after- 
wards I remembered it with a clearer sense of 
what it meant. He was more absorbed alto- 
gether than I had been used to see him. He 
was visited by men sometimes not of very prepos- 
sessing appearance. Surprise grew in my mind 
without any very distinct idea of the reason of it ; 


THE PORTRAIT. 


99 


and it was not till after a chance conversation 
with Morphew that my vague uneasiness began 
to take definite shape. It was begun without 
any special intention on my part. Morphew 
had informed me that master was very busy, on 
some occasion when I wanted to see him. And 
I was a little annoyed to be thus put off. “ It 
appears to me that my father is always busy,” I 
said hastily. Morphew then began very oracu- 
larly to nod his head in assent. 

“ A deal too busy, sir, if you take my opinion,” 
he said. 

This startled me much, and I asked hurriedly, 
“What do you mean?” without reflecting that to 
ask for private information from a servant about 
my father’s habits was as bad as investigating into 
a stranger’s affairs. It did not strike me in the 
same light. 

“Mr. Philip,” said Morphew, “a thing ’as 
’appened as ’appens more often than it ought to. 
Master has got awful keen about money in his 
old age.” 

“ That ’s a new thing for him,” I said. 

“No, sir, begging your pardon, it ain’t a 
new thing. He was once broke of it, and 
that was n’t easy done ; but it ’s come back, 
if you ’ll excuse me saying so. And I don’t 


lOO 


THE PORTRAIT, 


know as he ’ll ever be broke of it again at his 
age.” 

I felt more disposed to be angry than dis- 
turbed by this. “ You must be making some 
ridiculous mistake,” I said. ‘‘ And if you were 
not so old a friend as you are, Morphew, I 
should not have allowed my father to be so 
spoken of to me.” 

The old man gave me a half-astonished, half- 
contemptuous look. He ’s been my master a 
deal longer than he ’s been your father,” he said, 
turning on his heel. The assumption was so 
comical that my anger could not stand in face 
of it. I went out, having been on my way to 
the door when this conversation occurred, and 
took my usual lounge about, which was not a 
satisfactory sort of amusement. Its vanity and 
emptiness appeared to be more evident than 
usual to-day. I met half-a-dozen people I knew, 
and had as many pieces of news confided to me. 
I went up and down the length of the High 
Street. I made a small purchase or two. And 
then I turned homeward, despising myself, yet 
finding no alternative within my reach. Would a 
long country walk have been more virtuous? It 
would at least have been more wholesome ; but 
that was all that could be said. My mind did 


THE PORTRAIT. 


lOI 


not dwell on Morphew^s communication. It 
seemed without sense or meaning to me; and 
after the, excellent joke about his superior 
interest in his master to mine in my father, was 
dismissed lightly enough from my mind. I tried 
to invent some way of telling this to my father 
without letting him perceive that Morphew had 
been finding faults in him, or I listening ; for it 
seemed a pity to lose so good a joke. However, 
as I returned home, something happened which 
put the joke entirely out of my head. It is curi- 
ous^ when a new subject of trouble or anxiety 
has been suggested to the mind in an unexpected 
way, how often a second advertisement follows 
immediately after the first, and gives to that a 
potency which in itself it had not possessed. 

I was approaching our own door, wondering 
whether my father had gone, and whether, on 
my return, I should find him at leisure, — for I 
had several little things to say to him, — when I 
noticed a poor woman lingering about the closed 
gates; She had a baby sleeping in her arms. 
It was a spring night, the stars shining in the 
twilight, and everything soft and dim ; and the 
woman’s figure was like a shadow, flitting about, 
now here, now there, on one side or another of 
the gate. She stopped when she saw me 


102 


THE PORTRAIT. 


approaching, and hesitated for a moment, then 
seemed to take a sudden resolution. I watched 
her without knowing, with a prevision that she 
was going to address me, though with no sort of 
idea as to the subject of her address. She came 
up to me doubtfully, it seemed, yet certainly, as 
I felt, and when she was close to me, dropped a 
sort of hesitating curtsey, and said, It ’s Mr. 
Philip ? ” in a low voice. 

“ What do you want with me? ” I said. 

Then she poured forth suddenly, without 
warning or preparation, her long speech, — a 
flood of words which must have been all ready 
and waiting at the doors of her lips for utterance. 

Oh, sir, I want to speak to you ! I can’t be- 
lieve you ’ll be so hard, for you ’re young ; and 
I can’t believe he ’ll be so hard if so be as his 
own son, as I Ve always heard he had but one, ’ll 
speak up for us. Oh, gentleman, it is easy for 
the likes of you, that, if you ain’t comfortable in 
one room, can just walk into another ; but if one 
room is all you have, and every bit of furniture 
you have taken out of it, and nothing but the 
four walls left, — not so much as the cradle for 
the child, or a chair for your man to sit down 
upon when he comes from his work, or a sauce- 
pan to cook him his supper — ” 


THE PORTRAIT. 


103 


My good woman,” I said, who can have 
taken all that from you ? Surely nobody can be 
so cruel?” 

“ You say it ’s cruel ! ” she cried with a sort of 
triumph. “ Oh, I knowed you would, or any true 
gentleman that don’t hold with screwing poor 
folks. Just go and say that to him inside there, 
for the love of God. Tell him to think what 
he ’s doing, driving poor creatures to despair. 
Summer ’s coming, the Lord be praised, but yet 
it ’s bitter cold at night with your counterpane 
gone ; and when you ’ve been working hard all 
day, and nothing but four bare walls to come 
home to, and all your poor little sticks of furniture 
that you ’ve saved up for, and got together one 
by one, all gone, and you no better than when 
you started, or rather worse, for then you was 
young. Oh, sir ! ” the woman’s voice rose into 
a sort of passionate wail. And then she added, 
beseechingly, recovering herself, “ Oh, speak for 
us ; he ’ll not refuse his own son — ” 

*‘To whom am I to speak? Who is it that 
has done this to you?” I said. 

The woman hesitated again, looking keenly in 
my face, then repeated with a slight faltering, 
“It’s Mr. Philip?” as if that made everything 
right. 


104 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Yes ; I am Philip Canning,” I said ; “ but 
what have I to do with this ? and to whom am I 
to speak? ” 

She began to whimper, crying and stopping 
herself. “ Oh, please, sir ! it ’s Mr. Canning as 
owns all the house property about ; it ’s him 
that our court and the lane and everything be- 
longs to. And he ’s taken the bed from under 
us, and the baby’s cradle, although it ’s said in 
the Bible as you ’re not to take poor folks’ bed.” 

My father ! ” I cried in spite of myself ; 
“ then it must be some agent, some one else in 
his name. You may be sure he knows nothing 
of it. Of course I shall speak to him at once.” 

“ Oh, God bless you, sir,” said the woman. 
But then she added, in a lower tone, “ It ’s no 
agent. It ’s one as never knows trouble. It ’s 
him that lives in that grand house.” But this 
was said under her breath, evidently not for me 
to hear. 

Morphew’s words flashed through my mind as 
she spoke. What was this? Did it afford an 
explanation of the much- occupied hours, the big 
books, the strange visitors? I took the poor 
woman’s name, and gave her something to 
procure a few comforts for the night, and went 
indoors disturbed and troubled. It was iinpos- 


THE PORTRAIT. 


105 

sible to believe that my father himself would 
have acted thus ; but he was not a man to brook 
interference, and I did not see how to introduce 
the subject, what to say. I could but hope that, 
at the moment of broaching it, words would be 
put into my mouth, which often happens in 
moments of necessity, one knows not how, even 
when one’s theme is not so all-important as that 
for which such help has been promised. As 
usual, I did not see my father till dinner. I 
have said that our dinners were very good, 
luxurious in a simple way, everything excellent 
in its kind, well cooked, well served, — the per- 
fection of comfort without show, — which is a 
combination very dear to the Enghsh heart. I 
said nothing till Morphew, with his solemn 
attention to everything that was going, had 
retired ; and then it was with some strain of 
courage that I began. 

“ I was stopped outside the gate to-day by a 
curious sort of petitioner, ■ — a poor woman, who 
seems to be one of your tenants, sir, but whom 
your agent must have been rather too hard 
upon.” 

“My agent? Who is that?” said my father 
quietly. 

“ I don’t know his name, and I doubt his 


io6 


THE PORTRAIT. 


competence. The poor creature seems to have 
had everything taken from her, — her bed, her 
child’s cradle.” 

“No doubt she was behind with her rent.” 

“Very likely, sir. She seemed very poor,” 
said I. 

“ You take it coolly,” said my father, with an 
upward glance, half- amused, not in the least 
shocked by my statement. “ But when a man, 
or a woman either, takes a house, I suppose 
you will allow that they ought to pay rent 
for it.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” I replied, “ when they have 
got anything to pay.” 

“I don’t allow the reservation,” he said. But 
he was not angry, which I had feared he would 
be. 

“ I think,” I continued, “ that your agent 
must be too severe. And this emboldens me to 
say something which has been in my mind for 
some time” — (these were the words, no doubt, 
which I had- hoped would be put into my 
mouth ; they were the suggestion of the moment, 
and yet as I said them it was with the most 
complete conviction of their truth) — “ and that 
is this : I am doing nothing ; my time hangs 
heavy on my hands. Make me your agent. I 


THE PORTRAIT. 


107 


will see for myself, and save you from such mis- 
takes ; and it will be an occupation — ” 

“ Mistakes ? What warrant have you for say- 
ing these are mistakes?” he said testily; then 
after a moment : This is a strange proposal 
from you, Phil. Do you know what it is you 
are offering ? — to be a collector of rents, going 
about from door to door, from week to week ; to 
look after wretched little bits of repairs, drains, 
etc; to get paid, which, after all, is the chief 
thing, and not to be taken in by tales of 
poverty.” 

“ Not to let you be taken in by men without 
pity,” I said. 

He gave me a strange glance, which I did not 
very well understand, and said abruptly, a thing 
which, so far as I remember, he had never in my 
life said before, “ You Ve become a little like 
your mother, Phil — ” 

“ My mother ! ” the reference was so unusual 
— nay, so unprecedented — that I was greatly 
startled. It seemed to me like the sudden 
introduction of a quite new element in the 
stagnant atmosphere, as well as a new party to 
our conversation. My father looked across the 
table, as if with some astonishment at my tone 
of surprise. 


Io8 THE PORTRAIT. 

“ Is that SO very extraordinary ? ” he said. 

No ; of course it is not extraordinary that 1 
should resemble my mother. Only — I have 
heard very little of her — almost nothing.” 

" That is true.” He got up and placed him- 
self before the fire, which was very low, as the 
night was not cold — had not been cold hereto- 
fore at least ; but it seemed to me now that a 
little chill came into the dim and faded room. 
Perhaps it looked more dull from the suggestion 
of a something brighter, warmer, that might have 
been. “ Talking of mistakes,” he said, “ perhaps 
that was one : to sever you entirely from her side 
of the house. But I did not care for the 
connection. You will understand how it is that 
I speak of it now when I tell you — ” He 
stopped here, however, said nothing more for a 
minute or so, and then rang the bell. Morphew 
came, as he always did, very deliberately, so that 
some time elapsed in silence, during which my 
surprise grew. When the old man appeared 
at the door — “ Have you put the lights in 
the drawing-room, as I told you ? ” my father 
said. 

Yes, sir ; and opened the box, sir ; and it ’s a 
— it ’s a speaking likeness — ” 

This the old man got out in a great hurry, as 


THE PORTRAIT. 


109 

if afraid that his master would stop him. My 
father did so with a wave of his hand. 

“ That ’s enough. I asked no information. 
You can go now.” 

The door closed upon us, and there was again 
a pause. My subject had floated away alto- 
gether like a mist, though I had been so con- 
cerned about it. I tried to resume, but could not. 
Something seemed to arrest my very breathing ; 
and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, 
where everything breathed good character and 
integrity, it was certain that there could be no 
shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time 
before my father spoke, not from any purpose 
that I could see, but apparently because his mind 
was busy with probably unaccustomed thoughts. 

“ You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil,” 
he said at last. 

“Very little. I have never seen it used. I 
have a little awe of it, to tell the truth.” 

“ That should not be. There is no reason for 
that. But a man by himself, as I have been for 
the greater part of my life, has no occasion for a 
drawing-room, I always, -as a matter of pref- 
erence, sat among my books ; however, I ought 
to have thought of the impression on you.” 

“ Oh, it is not important,” I said ; “ the awe 


no 


THE PORTRAIT. 


was childish. I have not thought of it since I 
came home.” 

It never was anything very splendid at the 
best,” said he. He lifted the lamp from the 
table with a sort of abstraction, not remarking 
even my offer to take it from him, and led the 
way. He was on the verge of seventy, and 
looked his age ; but it was a vigorous age, with 
no symptom of giving way. The circle of light 
from the lamp lit up his white hair and keen 
blue eyes and clear complexion; his forehead 
was like old ivory, his cheek warmly colored ; an 
old man, yet a man in full strength. He was 
taller than I was, and still almost as strong. As 
he stood for a moment with the lamp in his 
hand, he looked like a tower in his great height 
and bulk. I reflected as I looked at him that I 
knew him intimately, more intimately than any 
other creature in the world, — I was familiar 
with every detail of his outward life ; could it be 
that in reality I did not know him at all? 


The drawing-room was already lighted with a 
flickering array of candles upon the mantelpiece 
and along the walls, producing the pretty, starry 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Ill 


effect which candles give without very much 
light. As I had not the smallest idea what I 
was about to see, for Morphew’s speaking 
likeness ” was very hurriedly said, and only half 
comprehensible in the bewilderment of my 
faculties, my first glance was at this very unusual 
illumination, for which I could assign no reason. 
The next showed me a large full-length portrait, 
still in the box in which apparently it had 
travelled, placed upright, supported against a 
table in the centre of the room. My father 
walked straight up to it, motioned to me to 
place a smaller table close to the picture on the 
left side, and put his lamp upon that. Then he 
waved his hand towards it, and stood aside that 
I might see. 

It was a full-length portrait of a very young 
woman — I might say a girl scarcely twenty — in 
a white dress, made in a very simple old fashion, 
though I was too little accustomed to female 
costume to be able to fix the date. It might 
have been a hundred years old, or twenty, for 
aught I kneAV. The face had an expression of 
youth, candor, and simplicity more than any face 
I had ever seen, — or so, at least in my sur- 
prise, I thought. The eyes were a little wistful, 
with something which was almost anxiety — 


112 


THE PORTRAIT. 


which at least was not content in them ; a 
faint, almost imperceptible, curve in the lids. 
The complexion was of a dazzling fairness, the 
hair light, but the eyes dark, which gave in- 
dividuality to the face. It would have been as 
lovely had the eyes been blue, — probably more 
so, — but their darkness gave a touch of charac- 
ter, a slight discord, which made the harmony 
finer. It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the 
highest sense of the word. The girl must have 
been too young, too slight, too little developed 
for actual beauty; but a face which so invited 
love and confidence I never saw. One smiled at 
it with instinctive affection. ‘‘What a sweet 
face ! ” I said. “ What a lovely girl ! Who is 
she? Is this one of the relations you were 
speaking of on the other side?” 

My father made me no reply. He stood 
aside, looking at it as if he knew it too well to 
require to look, — as if the picture was already 
in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, after an interval, 
with a long-drawn breath, “ she was a lovely girl, 
as you say.” 

“ Was ? — then she is dead. What a pity!” 
I said ; “ what a pity ! so young and so sweet ! ” 

We stood gazing at her thus, in her beautiful 
stillness and calm, — two men, the younger of us 


THE PORTRAIT. 


II3 

full'grown and conscious of many experiences, 
the other an old man, — before this impersona- 
tion of tender youth. At length he said, with a 
slight tremulousness in his voice, Does nothing 
suggest to you who she is, Phil? ” 

I turned round to look at him with profound 
astonishment, but he turned away from my look. 
A sort of quiver passed over his face. “ That is 
your mother,” he said, and walked suddenly 
away, leaving me there. 

My mother 1 

I stood for a moment in a kind of conster- 
nation before the white-robed innocent creature, 
to me no more than a child; then a sudden 
laugh broke from me, without any will of. mine : 
something ludicrous, as well as something awful, 
was in it. When the laugh was over, I found 
myself with tears in my eyes, gazing, holding my 
breath. The soft features seemed to melt, the 
lips to move, the anxiety in the eyes to become 
a personal inquiry. Ah, no ! nothing of the 
kind ; only because of the water in mine. My 
mother ! oh, fair and gentle creature, scarcely 
woman, how could any man’s voice call her by 
that name ! I had little idea enough of what it 
meant, ^ — had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, 
reverenced, but never had learned to place it 
8 


THE PORTRAIT. 


I14 

even among the ideal powers of life. Yet if it 
meant anything at all, what it meant was worth 
thinking of. What did she ask, looking at me 
with those eyes? What would she have said if 
those lips had language”? If I had known 
her only as Cowper did — with a child’s rec- 
ollection — there might have been some thread, 
some faint but comprehensible link, between us ; 
but now all that I felt was the curious incon- 
gruity. Poor child ! I said to myself ; so sweet 
a creature : poor little tender soul ! as if she had 
been a little sister, a child of mine, — but my 
mother ! I cannot tell how long I stood looking 
at her, studying the candid, sweet face, which 
surely had germs in it of everything that was 
good and beautiful ; and sorry, with a profound 
regret, that she had died and never carried these 
promises to fulfilment. Poor girl ! poor people 
who had loved her ! These were my thoughts ; 
with a curious vertigo and giddiness of my whole 
being in the sense of a mysterious relationship, 
which it was beyond my power to understand. 

Presently my father came back, possibly be- 
cause I had been a long time unconscious of the 
passage of the minutes, or perhaps because he 
was himself restless in the strange disturbance of 
his habitual calm. He came in and put his arm 


THE PORTRAIT. 


II5 

within mine, leaning his weight partially upon me, 
with an affectionate suggestion which went deeper 
than words. I pressed his arm to my side : it 
was more between us two grave Englishmen than 
any embracing. 

“ I cannot understand it,” I said. 

“No. I don’t wonder at that ; but if it is 
strange to you, Phil, think how much more 
strange to me ! That is the partner of my life. 
I have never had another, or thought of an- 
other. That — girl ! If we are to meet again, as 
I have always hoped we should meet again, what 
am I to say to her, — I, an old man ? Yes ; I 
know what you mean. I am not an old man for 
my years ; but my years are threescore and ten, 
and the play is nearly played out. How am I 
to meet that young creature? We used to say to 
each other that it was forever, that we never could 
be but one, that it was for life and death. But 
what — what am I to say to her, Phil, when I 
meet her again, that — that angel? No, it is not 
her being an angel that troubles me ; but she is 
so young ! She is like my* — my granddaughter,” 
he cried, with a burst of what was half sobs, half 
laughter ; “ and she is my wife, — and I am an 
old man — an old man ! And so much has hap- 
pened that she could not understand.” 


1 1 6 THE PORTRAIT. 

I was too much startled by tliis strange com- 
plaint to know what to say. It was not my own 
trouble, and I answered it in the conventional 
way. 

“ They are not as we are, sir,” I said ; they 
look upon us with larger, other eyes than ours.” 

“ Ah ! you don’t know what I mean,” he said 
quickly ; and in the interval he had subdued his 
emotion. “At first, after she died, it was my 
consolation to think that I should meet her 
again, — that we never could be really parted. 
But, my God, how I have changed since then ! 
I am another man, — I am a different being. I 
was not very young even then, — twenty years older 
than she was ; but her youth renewed mine. I 
was not an unfit partner ; she asked no better, 
and knew as much more than I did in some 
things, — being so much nearer the source, — as 
I did in others that were of the world. But I 
have gone a long way since then, Phil, — a long 
way; and there she stands, just where I left 
her.” 

I pressed his arm "again. “ Father,” I said, 
which was a title I seldom used, “ we are not to 
suppose that in a higher life the mind stands 
still.” I did not feel myself qualified to discuss 
such topics, but something one must say. 


THE PORTRAIT. 


II7 

Worse, worse ! ” he replied ; then she too 
will be, like me, a different being, and we shall 
meet as what? as strangers, as people who have 
lost sight of each other, with a long past between 
us, — we who parted, my God ! with — with — ” 
His voice broke and ended for a moment : 
then while, surprised and almost shocked by 
what he said, I cast about in my mind what to 
reply, he withdrew his arm suddenly from mine, 
and said in his usual tone, Where shall we hang 
the picture, Phil ? It must be here in this room. 
What do you think will be the best light ? ” 

This sudden alteration took me still more by 
surprise, and gave me almost an additional shock ; 
but it was evident that I must follow the changes 
of his mood, or at least the sudden repression of 
sentiment which he originated. We went into 
that simpler question with great seriousness, con* 
suiting which would be the best light. “You 
know I can scarcely advise,” I said ; “ I have 
never been familiar with this room. I should 
like to put off, if you don’t mind, till day- 
light.” 

“I think,” he said, “that this would be the 
best place.” It was on the other side of the 
fireplace, on the wall which faced the windows, 
^ not the best light, I knew enough to be aware. 


1 1 8 THE PORTRAIT. 

for an oil-painting. When I said so, however, 
he answered me with a little impatience, “ It 
does not matter very much about the best light ; 
there will be nobody to see it but you and me. 
I have my reasons — ” There was a small table 
standing against the wall at this spot, on which 
he had his hand as he spoke. Upon it stood a 
little basket in very fine lace-like wicker-work. 
His hand must have trembled, for the table 
shook, and the basket fell, its contents turning 
out upon the carpet, — little bits of needlework, 
colored silks, a small piece of knitting half done. 
He laughed as they rolled out at his feet, and 
tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a 
chair, and covered for a moment his face with 
his hands. 

No need to ask what they were. No woman’s 
work had been seen in the house since I could 
recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and 
put them back. I could see, ignorant as I was, 
that the bit of knitting was something for an 
infant. What could I do less than put it to 
my lips? It had been left in the doing — 
for me. 

‘‘ Yes, I think this is the best place,” my father 
said a minute after, in his usual tone. 

We placed it there that evening with our own 


THE PORTRAIT. 


II9 

hands. The picture was large, and in a heavy 
frame, but my father would let no one help me 
but himself. And then, with a superstition for 
which I never could give any reason even to 
myself, having removed the packings, we closed 
and locked the door, leaving the candles about 
the room, in their soft, strange illumination, 
lighting the first night of her return to her 
old place. 

That night no more was said. My father 
went to his room early, which was not his habit. 
He had never, however, accustomed me to sit 
late with him in the library. I had a little study 
or smoking-room of my own, in which all my 
special treasures were, the collections of my 
travels and my favorite books, — and where I 
always sat after prayers, a ceremonial which was 
regularly kept up in the house. I retired as usual 
this night to my room, and, as usual, read, — but 
to-night somewhat vaguely, often pausing to 
think. When it was quite late, I went out by 
the glass door to the lawn, and walked round the 
house, with the intention of looking in at the 
drawing-room windows, as I had done when a 
child. But I had forgotten that these windows 
were all shuttered at night ; and nothing but a ^ 
faint penetration of the light within through the 


120 


:fHE PORTRAIT. 


crevices bore witness to the instalment of the 
new dweller there. 

In the morning my father was entirely himself 
again. He told me without emotion of the man- 
ner in which he had obtained the picture. It 
had belonged to my mother’s family, and had 
fallen eventually into the hands of a cousin of 
hers, resident abroad, — “A man whom I did 
not like, and who did not like me,” my father 
•said ; “ there was, or had been, some rivalry, he 
thought : a mistake, but he was never aware of 
that. He refused all my requests to have a copy 
made. You may suppose, Phil, that I wished 
this very much. Had I succeeded, you would 
have been acquainted, at least, with your mother’s 
appearance, and need not have sustained this 
shock. But he would not consent. It gave him, 
I think, a certain pleasure to think that he had 
the only picture. But now he is dead, and out 
of remorse, or with some other intention, has left 
it to me.” 

That looks like kindness,” said I. 

“ Yes ; or something else. He might have 
thought that by so doing he was establishing a 
claim upon me,” my father said ; but he did not 
^ seem disposed to add any more. On whose 
behalf he meant to establish a claim I did not 


THE PORTRAIT. 


I2I 


know, nor who the man was who had laid us 
under so great an obligation on his death-bed. 
He had established a claim on me at least; 
though, as he was dead, I could not see on 
whose behalf it was. And my father said 
nothing more ; he seemed to dislike the sub- 
ject. When I attempted to return to it, he 
had recourse to his letters or his newspapers. 
Evidently he had made up his mind to say no 
more. 

Afterwards I went into the drawing-room, to 
look at the picture once more. It seemed to 
me that the anxiety in her eyes was not so 
evident as I had thought it last night. The light 
possibly was more favorable. She stood just 
above the place where, I make no doubt, she 
had sat in life, where her little work-basket was, 
— not very much above it. The picture was 
full-length, and we had hung it low, so that she 
might have been stepping into the room, and 
was little above my own level as I stood and 
looked at her again. Once more I smiled at 
the strange thought that this young creature — so 
young, almost childish — could be my mother ; 
and once more my eyes grew wet looking at her. 
He was a benefactor, indeed, who had given her 
back to us. I said to myself, that if I could ever 


122 


THE PORTRAIT. 


do anything for him or his, I would certainly do it, 
for my — for this lovely young creature’s sake. 

And with this in my mind, and all the thoughts 
that came with it, I am obliged to confess that 
the other matter, which I had been so full of 
on the previous night, went entirely out of my 
head. 


It is rarely, however, that such matters are 
allowed to slip out of one’s mind. When I went 
out in the afternoon for my usual stroll, — or 
rather when I returned from that stroll, — I saw 
once more before me the woman with her baby, 
whose story had filled me with dismay on the 
previous evening. She was waiting at the gate 
as before, and, “ Oh, gentleman, but have n’t you 
got some news to give me? ” she said. 

“ My good woman, — I — have been greatly 
occupied. I have had — no time to do any- 
thing.” 

“ Ah ! ” she said, with a little cry of disap- 
pointment, “ my man said not to make too sure, 
and that the ways of the gentlefolks is hard to 
know.” 

‘‘ I cannot explain to you,” I said, as gently as 
I could, “ what it is that has made me forget you. 


THE PORTRAIT. 


123 


It was an event that can only do you good in the 
end. Go home now, and see the man that took 
your things from you, and tell him to come to 
me. I promise you it shall all be put right.” 

The woman looked at me in astonishment, 
then burst forth, as it seemed, involuntarily, 
“What! without asking no questions?” After 
this there came a storm of tears and blessings, 
from which I made haste to escape, but not 
without carrying that curious commentary on my 
rashness away with me, — “ Without asking no 
questions?” It might be foolish, perhaps; but 
after all, how slight a matter. To make the poor 
creature comfortable at the cost of what, — a box 
or two of cigars, perhaps, or some other trifle. 
And if it should be her own fault, or her hus- 
band’s — what then ? Had I been punished for 
all my faults, where should I have been now? 
And if the advantage should be only temporary, 
what then? To be relieved and comforted even 
for a day or two, was not that something to 
count in life ? Thus I quenched the fiery dart of 
criticism which my protegee herself had thrown 
into the transaction, not without a certain sense 
of the humor of it. Its effect, however, was to 
make me less anxious to see my father, to repeat 
my proposal to him, and to call his attention to 


124 


THE PORTRAIT, 


the cruelty performed in his name. This one 
case I had taken out of the category of wrongs 
to be righted, by assuming arbitrarily the position 
of Providence in my own person, — for, of course, 
I had bound myself to pay the poor creature’s 
rent as well as redeem her goods, — and, what- 
ever might happen to her in the future, had 
taken the past into my own hands. The man 
came presently to see me, who, it seems, had 
acted as my father’s agent in the matter. ‘‘ I 
don’t know, sir, how Mr. Canning will take it,” 
he said. ‘‘ He don’t want none of those irregular, 
bad-paying ones in his property. He always 
says as to look over it and let the rent run on is 
making things worse in the end. His rule is, 
^ Never more than a month, Stevens ; ’ that ’s 
what Mr. Canning says to me, sir. He says, 
‘ More than that they can’t pay. It ’s no use 
trying.’ And it ’s a good rule ; it ’s a very good 
rule. He won’t hear none of their stories, sir. 
Bless you, you ’d never get a penny of rent from 
them small houses if you listened to their tales. 
But if so be as you ’ll pay Mrs. Jordan’s rent, it ’s 
none of my business how it ’s paid, so long as 
it ’s paid, and I ’ll send her back her things. But 
they ’ll just have to be took next time,” he added 
composedly. “ Over and over ; it ’s always the 


THE PORTRAIT. 


125 


same story with them sort of poor folks, — 
they ’re too poor for anything, that ’s the truth,” 
the man said. 

Morphew came back to my room after my 
visitor was gone. “ Mr. Philip,” he said, “ you ’ll 
excuse me, sir, but if you ’re going to pay all 
the poor folks’ rent as have distresses put in, 
you may just go into the court at once, for it ’s 
without end — ” 

I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, 
and manage for my father ; and we ’ll soon put 
a stop to that,” I said, more cheerfully than I 
felt. 

“ Manage for — master,” he said, with a face 
of consternation. ‘‘ You, Mr. Philip ! ” 

“ You seem to have a great contempt for me, 
Morphew.” 

He did not deny the fact. He said with 
excitement, “ Master, sir, — master don’t let him- 
self be put a stop to by any man. Master ’s — 
not one to be managed. Don’t you quarrel with 
master, Mr. Philip, for the love of God.” The 
old man was quite pale. 

Quarrel ! ” I said. ‘‘ I have never quarrelled 
with my father, and I don’t mean to begin 
now.” 

Morphew dispelled his own excitement by 


126 


THE PORTRAIT. 


making up the fire, which was dying in the grate. 
It was a very mild spring evening, and he made 
up a great blaze which would have suited De- 
cember. This is one of many ways in which an 
old servant will relieve his mind. He muttered 
all the time as he threw on the coals and wood. 
“ He ’ll not like it, — we all know as he ’ll not 
like it. Master won’t stand no meddling, Mr. 
Philip,” — this last he discharged at me like a 
flying arrow as he closed the door. 

I soon found there was truth in what he said. 
My father was not angry ; he was even half 
amused. “ I don’t think that plan of yours will 
hold water, Phil. I hear you have been paying 
rents and redeeming furniture, — that ’s an ex- 
pensive game, and a very profitless one. Of 
course, so long as you are a benevolent gentle- 
man acting for your own pleasure, it makes no 
difference to me. I am quite content if I get my 
money, even out of your pockets, — so long as it 
amuses you. But as my collector, you know, 
which you are good .enough to propose to 
be—” 

“ Of course I should act under your orders,” 
I said ; but at least you might be sure that 
I would not commit you to any — to any — ” I 
paused for a word. 


THE PORTRAIT. 


127 


Act of oppression/’ he said, with a smile — 
“ piece of cruelty, exaction — there are half-a- 
dozen words — ” 

“Sir — ” I cried. 

“ Stop, Phil, and let us understand each 
other. I hope I have always been a just man. 
I do my duty on my side, and I expect it 
from others. It is your benevolence that is 
cruel. I have calculated anxiously how much 
credit it is safe to allow ; but I will allow no 
man, or woman either, to go beyond what he 
or she can make up. My law is fixed. Now 
you understand. My agents, as you call them, 
originate nothing; they execute only what I 
decide — ” 

“ But then no circumstances are taken into 
account, — no bad luck, no evil chances, no loss 
unexpected.” 

“There are no evil chances,” he said ; “there 
•is no bad luck; they reap as they sow. No, I 
don’t go among them to be cheated by their 
stories, and spend quite unnecessary emotion in 
sympathizing with them. You will find it much 
better for you that I don’t. I deal with them on 
a general rule, made, I assure you, not without a 
great deal of thought.” 

“And must it always be so?” I said. “Is 


128 


THE PORTRAIT. 


there no way of ameliorating or bringing in a 
better state of things ? ” 

“ It seems not,” he said ; we don’t get ^no 
forrarder’ in that direction so far as I can see.” 
And then he turned the conversation to general 
matters. 

I retired to my room greatly discouraged that 
night. In former ages — or so one is led to 
suppose — and in the lower primitive classes 
who still linger near the primeval type, action of 
any kind was, and is, easier than amid the 
complication of our higher civilization. A bad 
man is a distinct entity, against whom you know 
more or less what steps to take. A tyrant, an 
oppressor, a bad landlord, a man who lets miser- 
able tenements at a rack-rent (to come down to 
particulars), and exposes his wretched tenants to 
all those abominations of which we have heard so 
much — well ! he is more or less a satisfactory 
opponent. There he is, and there is nothing to 
be said for him — down with him ! and let there 
be an end of his wickedness. But when, on the 
contrary, you have before you a good man, a 
just man, who has considered deeply a question 
which you allow to be full of difficulty ; who 
regrets, but cannot, being human, avert the 
miseries which to some unhappy individuals 


THE PORTRAIT. 


129 


follow from the very wisdom of his rule, — what 
can you do ? What is to be done ? Individual 
benevolence at hap-hazard may balk him here 
and there, but what have you to put in the place 
of his well-considered scheme ? Charity which 
makes paupers ? or what else ? I had not con- 
sidered the question deeply, but it seemed to 
me that I now came to a blank wall, which my 
vague human sentiment of pity and scorn could 
find no way to breach. There must be wrong 
somewhere, but where? There must be some 
change for the better to be made, but how ? 

I was seated with a book before me on the 
table, with my head supported on my hands. 
My eyes were on the printed page, but I was not 
reading ; my mind was full of these thoughts, 
my heart of great discouragement and despond- 
ency, — a sense that I could do nothing, yet that 
there surely must and ought, if I but knew it, be 
something to do. The fire which Morphew had 
built up before dinner was dying out, the shaded 
lamp on my table left all the corners in a 
mysterious twilight. The house was perfectly 
still, no one moving : my father in the library, 
where, after the habit of many solitary years, he 
liked to be left alone, and I here in my retreat, 
preparing for the formation of similar habits. I 
9 


130 


THE PORTRAIT. 


thought all at once of the third member of the 
party, the new-comer, alone too in the room 
that had been hers ; and there suddenly oc- 
curred to me a strong desire to take up my lamp 
and go to the drawing-room and visit her, to see 
whether her soft, angelic face would give any 
inspiration. I restrained, however, this futile 
impulse, — for what could the picture say ? — and 
instead wondered what might have been had she 
lived, had she been there,^ warmly enthroned be- 
side the warm domestic centre, the hearth which 
would have been a common sanctuary, the true 
home. In that case what might have been? 
Alas ! the question was no more simple to 
answer than the other : she might have been 
there alone too, her husband’s business, her 
son’s thoughts, as far from her as now, when her 
silent representative held her old place in the 
silence and darkness. I had known it so, ofter 
enough. Love itself does not always give 
comprehension and sympathy. It might be that 
she was more to us there, in the sweet image of 
her undeveloped beauty, than she might have 
been had she lived and grown to maturity and 
fading, like the rest. 

I cannot be certain whether my mind was still 
lingering on this not very cheerful reflection, or if 


THE PORTRAIT. 


131 

it had been left behind, when the strange occur- 
rence came of which I have now to tell. Can I 
call it an occurrence ? My eyes were on my book, 
when I thought I heard the sound of a door 
opening and shutting, but so far away and faint 
that if real at all it must have been in a far cor- 
ner of the house. I did not move except to lift 
my eyes from the book as one does instinctively 
the better to listen ; when — But I cannot tell, 
nor have I ever been able to describe exactly what 
it was. My heart made all at once a sudden 
leap in my breast. I am aware that this language 
is figurative, and that the heart cannot leap ; but 
it is a figure so entirely justified by sensation, 
that no one will have any difficulty in understand- 
ing what I mean. My heart leaped up and be- 
gan beating wildly in my throat, in my ears, as if 
my whole being had received a sudden and intol- 
erable shock. The sound went through my head 
like the dizzy sound of some strange mechanism, 
a thousand wheels and springs circling, echoing, 
working in my brain. I felt the blood bound in 
my veins ; my mouth became dry, my eyes hot ; 
a sense of something insupportable took posses- 
sion of me. I sprang to my feet, and then I sat 
down again. I cast a quick glance round me be- 
yond the brief circle of the lamplight, but there 


132 


THE PORTRAIT. 


was nothing there to account in any way for this 
sudden extraordinary rush of sensation, nor 
could I feel any meaning in it, any suggestion, 
any moral impression. I thought I must be 
going to be ill, and got out my watch and felt 
my pulse : it was beating furiously, about one 
hundred and twenty- five throbs in a minute. I 
knew of no illness that could come on like this 
without warning, in a moment, and I tried to 
subdue myself, to say to myself that it was noth- 
ing, some flutter of the nerves, some physical 
disturbance. I laid myself down upon my sofa 
to try if rest would help me, and kept still, 
as long as the thumping and throbbing of this 
wild, excited mechanism within, like a wild beast 
plunging and struggling, would let me. I am 
quite aware of the confusion of the metaphor ; 
the reality was just so. It was like a mechanism 
deranged, going wildly with ever-increasing pre- 
cipitation, like those horrible wheels that from 
time to time catch a helpless human being in 
them and tear him to pieces ; but at the same 
time it was like a maddened living creature 
making the wildest efforts to get free. 

When I could bear this no longer I got up 
and walked about my room ; then having still a 
certain command of myself, though I could not 


THE PORTRAIT. 


133 


master the commotion within me, I deliberately 
took down an exciting book from the shelf, a 
book of breathless adventure which had always 
interested me, and tried with that to break the 
spell. After a few minutes, however, I flung the 
book aside ; I was gradually losing all power 
over myself. What I should be moved to do, — 
to shout aloud, to struggle with I know not 
what ; or if I was going mad altogether, and 
next moment must be a raving lunatic, — I 
could not tell. I kept looking round, expecting 
I don’t know what ; several times with the cor- 
ner of my eye I seemed to see a movement, as 
if some one was stealing out of sight ; but when 
I looked straight, there was never anything but 
the plain outlines of the wall and carpet, the 
chairs standing in good order. At last I snatched 
up the lamp in my hand, and went out of the room. 
To look at the picture, which had been faintly 
showing in my imagination from time to time, 
the eyes, more anxious than ever, looking at me 
from out the silent air ? But no ; I passed the 
door of that room swiftly, moving, it seemed, 
without any volition of my own, and before I 
knew where I was going, went into my father’s 
library with my lamp in my hand. 

He was still sitting there at his writing-table ; 


134 


THE PORTRAIT. 


he looked up astonished to see me hurrying i\ 
with my light. “ Phil 1 ” he said, surprised. I 
remember that I shut the door behind me, and 
came up to him, and set down the lamp on his 
table. My sudden appearance alarmed him. 
“What is the matter? ” he cried. “Philip, what 
have you been doing with yourself? ” 

I sat down on the nearest chair and gasped, 
gazing at him. The wild commotion ceased ; the 
blood subsided into its natural channels; my 
heart resumed its place. I use such words as 
mortal weakness can to express the sensations I 
felt. I came to myself thus, gazing at him, con- 
founded, at once by the extraordinary passion 
which I had gone through, and its sudden cessa- 
tion. “The matter?” I cried; “I don’t know 
what is the matter.” 

My father had pushed his spectacles up 
from his eyes. He appeared to me as faces 
appear in a fever, all glorified with light which 
is not in them,' — his eyes glowing, his white 
hair shining like silver ; but his looks were 
severe. “ You are not a boy, that I should 
reprove you ; but you ought to know better,” 
he said. 

Then I explained to him, so far as I was able, 
what had happened. Had happened? Nothing 


THE PORTRAIT. 


135 


had happened. He did not understand me ; 
nor did I, now that it was over, understand my- 
self ; but he saw enough to make him aware that 
the disturbance in me was serious, and not 
caused by any folly of my own. He was very 
kind as sooUj as he had assured himself of this, 
and talked, taking pains to bring me back to 
unexciting subjects. He had a letter in his 
hand with a very deep border of black when 
I came in. I observed it, without taking any 
notice or associating it with ' anything I knew. 
He had many correspondents ; and although we 
were excellent friends, we had never been on 
those confidential terms which warrant one man 
in asking another from whom a special letter has 
come. We were not so near to each other as 
this, though we were father and son. After a 
while I went back to my own room, and finished 
the evening in my usual way, without any return 
of the excitement which, now that it was over, 
looked to me like some extraordinary dream. 
What had it meant? Had it meant anything? I 
said to myself that it must be purely physical, 
something gone temporarily amiss, which had 
righted itself. It was physical ; the excitement 
did not affect my mind. I was independent of 
it all the time, a spectator of my own agitation, — 


136 THE PORTRAIT. 

a clear proof that, whatever it was, it had affected 
my bodily organization alone. 

Next day I returned to the problem which I 
had not been able to solve. I found out my 
petitioner in the back street, and that she was 
happy in the recovery of her possessions, which 
to my eyes indeed did not seem very worthy 
either of lamentation or delight. Nor was her 
house the tidy house which injured virtue should 
have when restored to its humble rights. She 
was not injured virtue, it was clear. She made 
me a great many curtseys, and poured forth a 
number of blessings. Her man ” came in 
while I was there, and hoped in a gruff voice 
that God would reward me, and that the old 
gentleman ’d let ’em alone. I did not like the 
look of the man. It seemed to me that in the 
dark lane behind the house of a winter’s night 
he would not be a pleasant person to find in 
one’s way. Nor was this all : when I went out 
into the little street which it appeared was all, 
or almost all, my father’s property, a number of 
groups formed in my way, and at least half-a- 
dozen applicants sidled up. “ I ’ve more claims 
nor Mary Jordan any day,” said one ; ’ve lived 
on Squire Canning’s property, one place and 
another, this twenty year.” “.And what do you 


THE PORTRAIT. 


137 


say to me? ” said another ; I Ve six children to 
her two, bless you, sir, and ne’er a father to do 
for them.” I believed in my father’s rule before 
I got out of the street, and approved his wisdom 
in keeping himself free from personal contact 
with his tenants. Yet when I looked back upon 
the swarming thoroughfare, the mean little houses, 
the women at their doors all so open-mouthed 
and eager to contend for my favor, my heart 
sank within me at the thought that out of their 
misery some portion of our wealth came, I 
don’t care how small a portion ; that I, young 
and strong, should be kept idle and in luxury^ 
in some part through the money screwed out of 
their necessities, obtained sometimes by the sac- 
rifice of everything they prized ! Of course I 
know all the ordinary commonplaces of life as 
well as any one, — that if you build a house with 
your hand or your money, and let it, the rent 
of it is your just due, and must be paid. But 
yet — 

“ Don’t you think, sir,” I said that evening at 
dinner, the subject being reintroduced by my 
father himself, ‘‘ that we have some duty towards 
them when we draw so much from them ? ” 

Certainly,” he said ; I take as much trouble 
about their drains as I do about my own.” 


138 


THE PORTRAIT. 


That is always something, I suppose.” 

Something ! it is a great deal ; it is more 
than they get anywhere else. I keep them clean, 
as far as that ’s possible. I give them at least 
the means of keeping clean, and thus check 
disease, and prolong life, which is more, I assure 
you, than they Ve any right to expect.” 

I was not prepared with arguments as I ought 
to have been. That is all in the Gospel accord- 
ing to Adam Smith, which my father had been 
brought up in, but of which the tenets had begun 
to be less binding in my day. I wanted some- 
thing more, or else something less ; but my views 
were not so clear, nor my system so logical and 
well-built, as that upon which my father rested 
his conscience, and drew his percentage with a 
light heart. 

Yet I thought there were signs in him of some 
perturbation. I met him one morning coming 
out of the room in which the portrait hung, as 
if he had gone to look at it stealthily. He was 
shaking his head, and saying No, no,” to him- 
self, not perceiving me, and I stepped aside 
when I saw him so absorbed. For myself, I 
entered that room but little. I went outside, as 
I had so often done when I was a child, and 
looked through the windows into the still and 


THE PORTRAIT. 


139 


now sacred place, which had always impressed 
me with a certain awe. Looked at so, the slight 
figure in its white dress seemed to be stepping 
down into the room from some slight visionary al- 
titude, looking with that which had seemed to me 
at first anxiety, which I sometimes represented to 
myself now as a wistful curiosity, as if she were 
looking for the life which might have been hers. 
Where was the existence that had belonged to 
her, the sweet household place, the infant she 
had left? She would no more recognize the 
man who thus came to look at her as through 
a veil, with a mystic reverence, than I could rec- 
ognize her. I could never be her child to her, 
any more than she could be a mother to me. 


Thus time passed on for several quiet days. 
There was nothing to make us give any special 
heed to the passage of time, life being very un- 
eventful and its habits unvaried. My mind was 
very much preoccupied by my father’s tenants. 
He had a great deal of property in the town 
which was so near us, — streets of small houses, 
the best-paying property (I was assured) of any. 
I was very anxious to come to some settled 


140 


THE PORTRAIT. 


conclusion : on the one hand, not to let myself be 
carried away by sentiment ; on the other, not to 
allow my strongly roused feelings to fall into the 
blank of routine, as his had done. I was seated 
one evening in my own sitting-room, busy with 
this matter, — - busy with calculations as to cost 
and profit, with an anxious desire to convince 
him, either that his profits were greater than 
justice allowed, or that they carried with them 
a more urgent duty than he had conceived. 

It was night, but not late, not more than ten 
o’clock, the household still astir. Everything 
was quiet, ^ not the solemnity of midnight si- 
lence, in which there is always something of mys- 
tery, but the soft-breathing quiet of the evening, 
full of the faint habitual sounds of a human 
dwelling, a consciousness of life about. And I 
was very busy with my figures, interested, feeling 
no room in my mind for any other thought. 
The singular experience which had startled me 
so much had passed over very quickly, and there 
had been no return. I had ceased to think of 
it; indeed, I had never thought of it save for 
the moment, setting it down after it was over to 
a physical cause without much difficulty. At 
this time I was far too busy to have thoughts to 
spare for anything, or room for imagination ; and 


THE PORTRAIT. 


I41 

when suddenly in a moment, without any warn- 
ing, the first symptom returned, I started with 
it into determined resistance, resolute not to 
be fooled by any mock influence which could 
resolve itself into the action of nerves or gan- 
glions. The first symptom, as before, was that 
my heart sprang up with a bound, as if a cannon 
had been fired at my ear. My whole being 
responded with a start. The pen fell out of my 
fingers, the figures went out of my head as if all . 
faculty had departed ; and yet I was conscious 
for a time at least of keeping my self-control. I 
was like the rider of a frightened horse, rendered 
almost wild by something which in the mystery 
of its voiceless being it has seen, something on 
the road which it will not pass, but wildly plung- 
ing, resisting every persuasion, turns from, with 
ever-increasing passion. The rider himself after 
a time becomes infected with this inexplainable 
desperation of terror, and I suppose I must have 
done so ; but for a time I kept the upper hand. 
I would not allow myself to spring up as I 
wished, as my impulse was, but sat there dog- 
gedly, clinging to my books, to my table, fixing 
myself on I did not mind what, to resist the 
flood of sensation, of emotion, which was sweep- 
ing tlirough me, carrying me away. I tried to 


142 


THE PORTRAIT. 


continue my calculations. I tried to stir myself 
up with recollections of the miserable sights I 
had seen, the poverty, the helplessness. I tried 
to work myself into indignation ; but all through 
these efforts I felt the contagion growing upon 
me, my mind falling into sympathy with all 
those straining faculties of the body, startled, 
excited, driven wild by something, I knew not 
what. It was not fear. I was like a ship at sea 
straining and plunging against wind and tide, 
but I was not afraid. I am obliged to use these 
metaphors, otherwise I could give no explanation 
of my condition, seized upon against my will, 
and torn from all those moorings of reason to 
which I clung with desperation, as long as I had 
the strength. 

When I got up from my chair at last, the bat- 
tle was lost, so far as my powers of self-control 
were concerned. I got up, or rather was dragged 
up, from my seat, clutching at these material 
things round me as with a last effort to hold my 
own. But that was no longer possible ; I was 
overcome. I stood for a moment looking round 
me feebly, feeling myself begin to babble with 
stammering lips, which was the alternative of 
shrieking, and which I seemed to choose as a 
lesser evil. What I said was, “What am I to 


THE PORTRAIT. 


M3 

do? ” and after a while, “ What do you want me 
to do ? ” although throughout I saw no one, heard 
no voice, and had in reality not power enough 
in my dizzy and confused brain to know what I 
myself meant. I stood thus for a moment, look- 
ing blankly round me for guidance, repeating the 
question, which seemed after a time to become 
almost mechanical, “ What do you want me to 
do? ” though I neither knew to whom I addressed 
it nor why I said it. Presently — whether in an- 
swer, whether in mere yielding of nature, I can- 
not tell — I became aware of a diiference : not a 
lessening of the agitation, but a softening, as if 
my powers of resistance being exhausted, a gen- 
tler force, a more benignant influence, had room. 
I felt myself consent to whatever it was. My 
heart melted in the midst of the tumult ; I 
seemed to give myself up, and move as if drawn 
by some one whose arm was in mine, as if softly 
swept along, not forcibly, but with an utter con- 
sent of all my faculties to do I knew not what, 
for love of I knew not whom. For love, — that 
was how it seemed, — not by force, as when I 
went before. But my steps took the same 
course : I went through the dim passages in an 
exaltation indescribable, and opened the door of 
my father’s room. 


144 


THE PORTRAIT. 


He was seated there at his table as usual, the 
light of the lamp falling on his white hair; he 
looked up with some surprise at the sound of 
the opening door. “Phil,” he said, and with 
a look of wondering apprehension on his face, 
watched my approach. I went straight up to 
him and put my hand on his shoulder. “ Phil, 
what is the matter? What do you want with 
me? What is it?” he said. 

“ Father, I can’t tell you. I come not of my- 
self. There must be something in it, though I 
don’t know what it is. This is the second time 
I have been brought to you here.” 

“Are you going — ?” He stopped himself. 
The exclamation had been begun with an angry 
intention. He stopped, looking at me with a 
scared look, as if perhaps it might be true. 

“Do you mean mad? I don’t think so. I 
have no delusions that I know of. Father, think 
— do you know any reason why I am brought 
here? for some cause there must be.” 

I stood with my hand upon the back of his 
chair. His table was covered with papers, 
among which were several letters with the broad 
black border which I had before observed. I 
noticed this now in my excitement without any 
distinct association of thoughts, for that I was 


THE PORTRAIT. 


145 


not capable of ; but the black border caught my 
eye. And I was conscious that he too gave a 
hurried glance at them, and with one hand swept 
them away. 

Philip,” he said, pushing back his chair, you 
must be ill, my poor boy. Evidently we have 
not been treating you rightly; you have been 
more ill all through than I supposed. Let me 
persuade you to go to bed.” 

I am perfectly well,” I said. “ Father, don’t 
let us deceive one another, I am neither a man 
to go mad nor to see ghosts. What it is that has 
got the command over me I can’t tell ; but there 
is some cause for it. You are doing something 
or planning something with which I have a right 
to interfere.” 

He turned round squarely in his chair, with a 
spark in his blue eyes. He was not a man to be 
meddled with. I have yet to learn what can 
give my son a right to interfere. I am in pos- 
session of all my faculties, I hope.” 

‘^Father,” I cried, “won’t you listen to me? 
No one can say I have been undutiful or disre- 
spectful. I am a man, with a right to speak my 
mind, and I have done so ; but this is different. 
I am not here by my own will. Something that is 
stronger than I has brought me. There is some- 
10 


146 


THE PORTRAIT. 


thing in your mind which disturbs — others. I 
don’t know what I am saying. This is not what 
I meant to say; but you know the meaning 
better than I. Some one — who can speak to 
you only by me — speaks to you by me ; and 
I know that you understand.” 

He gazed up at me, growing pale, and his 
underlip fell. I, for my part, felt that my mes- 
sage was delivered. My heart sank into a still- 
ness so sudden that it made me faint. The 
light swam in my eyes ; everything went round 
with me. I kept upright only by my hold upon 
the chair ; and in the sense of utter weakness 
that followed, I dropped on my knees I think 
first, then on the nearest seat that presented 
itself, and, covering my face with my hands, 
had hard ado not to sob, in the sudden removal 
of that strange influence, — the relaxation of the 
strain. 

There was silence between us for some time ; 
then he said, but with a voice slightly broken, 
“ I don’t understand you, Phil. You must have 
taken some fancy into your mind which my 
slower intelligence — Speak out what you want 
to say. What do you find fault with ? 'Is it all 
— all that woman Jordan? ” 

He gave a short, forced laugh as he broke off, 


THE PORTRAIT. 


147 


and shook me almost roughly by the shoulder, 
saying, Speak out ! what — what do you want 
to say? ” 

“ It seems, sir, that I have said everything.” 
My voice trembled more than his, but not in the 
same way. “ I have told you that I did not 
come by my own will, — quite otherwise. I 
resisted as long as I could : now all is said. It 
is for you to judge whether it was worth the 
trouble or not.” 

He got up from his seat in a hurried way. 

You would have me as — mad as yourself,” 
he said, then sat down again as quickly. 
“ Come, Phil : if it will please you, not to make 
a breach, — the first breach between us, — you 
shall have your way. I consent to your looking 
into 'hat matter about the poor tenants. Your 
mind shall not be upset about that, even though 
I don’t enter into all your views.” 

“ Thank you,” I said ; but, father, that is not 
what it is.” 

“ Then it is a piece of folly,” he said angrily. 

I suppose you mean' — but this is a matter in 
which I choose to judge for myself.” 

You know what I mean,” I said, as quietly 
as I could, “ though I don’t myself know ; that 
proves there is good reason for it. Will you do 


148 


THE PORTRAIT. 


one thing for me before I leave you ? Come with 
me into the drawing-room — ” 

“ What end,” he said, with again the tremble 
in his voice, ‘‘is to be served by that?” 

“ I don’t very well know ; but to look at her, 
you and I together, will always do something for 
us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breach 
when we stand there.” 

He got up, trembling like an old man, which 
he was, but which he never looked like save at 
moments of emotion like this, and told me to 
take the light ; then stopped when he had got 
half-way across the room. “This is a piece of 
theatrical sentimentality,” he said. “ No, Phil, 
I will not go. I will not bring her into any 
such — Put down the lamp, and, if you will 
take my advice, go to bed.” 

“At least,” I said, “ I will trouble you no more, 
father, to-night. So long as you understand, 
there need be no more to say.” 

He gave me a very curt “good-night,” and 
turned back to his papers, — the letters with the 
black edge, either by my imagination or in real- 
ity, always keeping uppermost. I went to my 
own room for my lamp, and then alone proceeded 
to the silent shrine in which the portrait hung. I 
at least would look at her to-night. I don’t 


THE PORTRAIT, 


149 


know whether I asked myself, in so many words, 
if it were she who — or if it was any one — I 
knew nothing ; but my heart was drawn with a 
softness — bom, perhaps, of the great weakness 
in which I was left after that visitation — to her, 
to look at her, to see, perhaps, if there was any 
sympathy, any approval in her face. I set down 
my lamp on the table where her little work- 
basket still was ; the light threw a gleam upward 
upon her, — she seemed more than ever to be 
stepping into the room, coming down towards 
me, coming back to her life. Ah, no ! her life 
"was lost and vanished : all mine stood between 
her and the days she knew. She looked at me 
with eyes that did not change. The anxiety I 
had seen at first seemed now a wistful, subdued 
question ; but that difference was not in her look 
but in mine. 


I need not linger on the intervening time. 
The doctor who attended us usually, came in 
next day “ by accident,” and we had a long 
conversation. On the following day a very 
impressive yet genial gentleman from town 
lunched with us, — a friend of my father’s, Dr. 
Something ; but the introduction was hurried, 


THE PORTRAIT. 


150 

and I did not catch his name. He, too, had 
a long talk with me afterwards, my father 
being called away to speak to some one on 

business. Dr. drew me out on the subject 

of the dwellings of the poor. He said he heard 
I took great interest in this question, which 
had come so much to the front at the present 
moment. He was interested in it too, and 
wanted to know the view I took. I explained 
at considerable length that my view did not 
concern the general subject, on which I had 
scarcely thought, so much as the individual 
mode of management of my father’s estate. 
He was a most patient and intelligent listener, 
agreeing with me on some points, differing in 
others; and his visit was very pleasant. I 
had no idea until after of its special object ; 
though a certain puzzled look and slight shake 
of the head when my father returned, might 
have thrown some light upon it. The report of 
the medical experts in my case must, however, 
have been quite satisfactory, for I heard noth- 
ing more of them. It was, I think, a fortnight 
later when the next and last of these strange 
experiences came. 

This time it was morning, about noon, — a 
wet and rather dismal spring day. The half- 


THE PORTRAIT. 


spread leaves seemed to tap at the window, 
with an appeal to be taken in ; the primroses, 
that showed golden upon the grass at the roots 
of the trees, just beyond the smooth-shorn 
grass of the lawn, were all drooped and sod- 
den among their sheltering leaves. The very 
growth seemed dreary — the sense of spring in 
the air making the feeling of winter a griev- 
ance, instead of the natural effect which it had 
conveyed a few months before. I had been 
writing letters, and was cheerful enough, going 
back among the associates of my old life, with, 
perhaps, a little longing for its freedom and 
independence, but at the same time a not un- 
grateful consciousness that for the moment my 
present tranquillity might be best. 

This was my condition — a not unpleasant 
one — when suddenly the now well-known 
symptoms of the visitation to which I had 
become subject suddenly seized upon me, — 
the leap of the heart ; the sudden, causeless, 
overwhelming physical excitement, which I 
could neither ignore nor allay. I was terri- 
fied beyond description, beyond reason, when I 
became conscious that this was about to begin 
over again : what purpose did it answer ; what 
good was in it } My father indeed understood 


152 


THE PORTRAIT. 


the meaning of it, though I did not understand ; 
but it was little agreeable to be thus made a 
helpless instrument, without any will of mine, 
in an operation of which 1 knew nothing ; 
and to enact the part of the oracle unwillingly, 
with suffering and such a strain as it took me 
days to get over. I resisted, not as before, but 
yet desperately, trying with better knowledge 
to keep down the growing passion. I hurried 
to my room and swallowed a dose of a sedative 
which had been given me to procure sleep on 
my first return from India. I saw Morphew in 
the hall, and called him to talk to him, and 
cheat myself, if possible, by that means. Mor- 
phew lingered, however, and, before he came, 
I was beyond conversation. I heard him 
speak, his voice coming vaguely through the 
turmoil which was already in my ears, but what 
he said I have never known. I stood staring, 
trying to recover my power of attention, with 
an aspect which ended by completely frighten- 
ing the man. He cried out at last that he was 
sure I was ill, that he must bring me some- 
thing; which words penetrated more or less 
into my maddened brain. It became impressed 
upon me that he was going to get some one — 
one of my father’s doctors, perhaps — to pre- 


THE PORTRAIT. 


153 


vent me from acting, to stop my interference, 
and that if I waited a moment longer I might 
be too late. A vague idea seized me at the 
same time, of taking refuge with the portrait, 
— going to its feet, throwing myself there, per- 
haps, till the paroxysm should be over. But 
it was not there that my footsteps were di- 
rected. I can remember making an effort to 
open the door of the drawing-room, and feel- 
ing myself swept past it, as if by a gale of wind. 
It was not there that I had to go. I knew 
very well where I had to go, — once more on 
my confused and voiceless mission to my 
father, who understood, although I could not 
understand. 

Yet as it was daylight, and all was clear, I 
could not help noting one or two circumstances 
on my way. I saw some one sitting in the hall 
as if waiting, — a woman, a girl, a black- 
shrouded figure, with a thick veil over her 
face ; and asked myself who she was, and what 
she wanted there. This question, which had 
nothing to do with my present condition, some- 
how got into my mind, and was tossed up and 
down upon the tumultuous tide like a stray log 
on the breast of a fiercely rolling stream, now 
submerged, now coming uppermost, at the 


154 


THE PORTRAIT. 


mercy of the waters. It did not stop me for a 
moment, as I hurried towards my father’s room, 
but it got upon the current of my mind. I 
flung open my father’s door, and closed it again 
after me, without seeing who was there or how 
he was engaged. The full clearness of the 
daylight did not identify him as the lamp did 
at night. He looked up at the sound of the 
door, with a glance of apprehension ; and ris- 
ing suddenly, interrupting some one who was 
standing speaking to him with much earnest- 
ness and even vehemence, came forward to 
meet me. “ I cannot be disturbed at present,” 
he said quickly ; “ I am busy.” Then seeing 
the look in my face, which by this time he 
knew, he too changed color. “ Phil,” he said, 
in a low, imperative voice, “ wretched boy, go 
away — go away; don’t let a stranger see 
you — ” 

“ I can’t go away,” I said. “ It is impossi- 
ble. You know why I have come. I cannot, 
if I would. It is more powerful than I — ” 

“Go, sir,” he said; “go at once; no more 
of this folly. I will not have you in this room. 
Go — go ! ” 

I made no answer. I don’t know that I 
could have done so. There had never been 


THE PORTRAIT. 


155 


any struggle between us before ; but I had no 
power to do one thing or another. The tumult 
within me was in full career. I heard indeed 
what he said, and was able to reply ; but his 
words, too, were like straws tossed upon the 
tremendous stream. I saw now with my fever- 
ish eyes who the other person present was. It 
was a woman, dressed also in mourning similar 
to the one in the hall ; but this a middle-aged 
woman, like a respectable servant. She had 
been crying, and in the pause caused by this 
encounter between my father and myself, dried 
her eyes with a handkerchief, which she rolled 
like a ball in her hand, evidently in strong 
emotion. She turned and looked at me as my 
father spoke to me, for a moment with a gleam 
of hope, then falling back into her former 
attitude. 

My father returned to his seat. He was 
much agitated too, though doing all that was 
possible to conceal it. My inopportune arrival 
was evidently a great and unlooked-for vexa- 
tion to him. He gave me the only look of pas- 
sionate displeasure I have ever had from him, 
as he sat down again ; but he said nothing more. 

“You must understand,” he said, address- 
ing the woman, “ that I have said my last 


THE PORTRAIT. 


156 

words on this subject. I don’t choose to enter 
into it again in the presence of my son, who is 
not well enough to be made a party to any dis- 
cussion. I am sorry that you should have had 
so much trouble in vain ; but you were warned 
beforehand, and you have only yourself to 
blame. I acknowledge no claim, and nothing 
you can say will change my resolution. I must 
beg you to go away. All this is very painful 
and quite useless. I acknowledge no claim.” 

“ Oh, sir,” she cried, her eyes beginning 
once more to flow, her speech interrupted by 
little sobs. “ Maybe I did wrong to speak of 
a claim. I ’m not educated to argue with a 
gentleman. Maybe we have no claim. But if 
it ’s not by right, oh, Mr. Canning, won’t you 
let your heart be touched by pity ? She don’t 
know what I ’m saying, poor dear. She ’s not 
one to beg and pray for herself, as I ’m doing 
for her. Oh, sir, she ’s so young ! She ’s so 
lone in this world, — not a friend to stand by 
her, nor a house to take her in ! You are the 
nearest to her of any one that ’s left in this 
world. She has n’t a relation, — not one so 
near as you, — oh ! ” she cried, with a sudden 
thought, turning quickly round upon me, “ this 
gentleman ’s your son ! Now I think of it, 


THE PORTRAIT. 


157 


it ’s not your relation she is, but his, through 
his mother ! That ’s nearer, nearer ! Oh, sir ! 
you ’re young; your heart should be more 
tender. Here is my young lady that has no 
one in the world to look to her. Your own 
flesh and blood ; your mother’s cousin, — your 
mother’s — ” 

My father called to her to stop, with a voice 
of thunder. “ Philip, leave us at once. It is 
not a matter to be discussed with you.” 

And then in a moment it became clear to 
me what it was. It had been with difficulty 
that I had kept myself still. My breast was 
laboring with the fever of an impulse poured 
into me, more than I could contain. And 
now for the first time I knew why. I hurried 
towards him, and took his hand, though he 
resisted, into mine. Mine were burning, but 
his like ice : their touch burnt me with its chill, 
like fire. “ This is what it is ? ” I cried. “ I 
had no knowledge before. I don’t know now 
what is being asked of you. But, father, 
understand ! You know, and I know now, 
that sonje one sends me, — some one — who 
has a right to interfere.” 

He pushed me away with all his might. 
‘‘You are mad,” he cried. “What right have 


158 THE PORTRAIT. 

you to think — ? Oh, you are mad — mad ! 
I have seen it coming on — ” 

The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, 
watching this brief conflict with the terror and 
interest with which women watch a struggle 
between men. She started and fell back when 
she heard what he said, but did not take her 
eyes off me, following every movement I made. 
When I turned to go away, a cry of indescriba- 
ble disappointment and remonstrance burst 
rom her, and even my father raised himself up 
and stared at my withdrawal, astonished to find 
that he had overcome me so soon and easily. 
I paused for a moment, and looked back on 
them, seeing them large and vague through 
the mist of fever. “ I am not going away,” I 
said. I am going for another messenger, — 
one you can’t gainsay.” 

My father rose. He called out to me 
threateningly, “ I will have nothing touched 
that is hers. Nothing that is hers shall be 
profaned — ” 

I waited to hear no more ; I knew what I 
had to do. By what means it was conveyed 
to me I cannot tell ; but the certainty of an 
influence which no one thought of calmed* me 
in the midst of my fever. I went out into the 


THE PORTRAIT. 


159 


hall, where I had seen the young stranger 
waiting. I went up to her and touched her on 
the shoulder. She rose at once, with a little 
movement of alarm, yet with docile and in- 
stant obedience, as if she had expected the 
summons. I made her take off her veil and 
her bonnet, scarcely looking at her, scarcely see- 
ing her, knowing how it was : I took her soft, 
small, cool, yet trembling hand into mine ; it 
was so soft and cool, — not cold, s- it refreshed 
me with its tremulous touch. All through I 
moved and spoke like a man in a dream ; 
swiftly, noiselessly, all the complications of 
waking life removed ; without embarrassment, 
without reflection, without the loss of a mo- 
ment. My father was still standing up, lean- 
ing a little forward as he had done when I 
withdrew ; threatening, yet terror-stricken, not 
knowing what I might be about to do, when I 
returned with my companion. That was the 
one thing he had not thought of. He was en- 
tirely undecided, unprepared. He gave her 
one look, flung up his arms above his head, 
and uttered a distracted cry, so wild that it 
seemed the last outcry of nature, — “ Agnes ! ” 
then fell back like a sudden ruin, upon himself, 
into his chair. 


l60 THE PORTRAn’. 

I had no leisure to think how he was, or 
whether he could hear what I said. I had my 
message to deliver. “ Father,” I said, labor- 
ing with my panting breath, “it is for this 
that heaven has opened, and one whom I 
never saw, one whom I know not, has taken 
possession of me. Had we been less earthly, 
we should have seen her — herself, and not 
merely her image. I have not even known 
what she meant. I have been as a fool with- 
out understanding. This is the third time I 
have come to you with her message, without 
knowing what to say. But now I have found 
it out. This is her message. I have found it 
out at last.” There was an awful pause, — a 
pause in which no one moved or breathed. 
Then there came a broken voice out of my 
father’s chair. He had not understood, though 
I think he heard what I said. He put out two 
feeble hands. “ Phil — I think I am dying — 
has she — has she come for me } ” he said. 

We had to carry him to his bed. What strug- 
gles he had gone through before I cannot tell. 
He had stood fast, and had refused to be moved, 
and now he fell, — like an old tower, like an old 
tree. The necessity there was for thinking of 
him saved me from the physical consequences 


THE PORTRAIT. 


l6l 


•which had prostrated me on a former occasion. 
I had no leisure now for any consciousness of 
how matters went with myself. 

His delusion was not wonderful, but most 
natural. She was clothed in black from head 
to foot, instead of the white dress of the por- 
trait. She had no knlDwledge of the conflict, 
of nothing but that she was called for, that her 
fate 'might depend on the next few minutes. 
In her eyes there was a pathetic question, a 
line of anxiety in the lids, an innocent appeal in 
the looks. And the face the same : the same lips, 
sensitive, ready to quiver ; the same innocent, 
candid brow ; the look of a common race, which 
is more subtle than mere resemblance. How I 
knew that it was so I cannot tell, nor any man. 
It was the other, the elder, — ah, no ! not elder ; 
the ever young, the Agnes to whom age can 
never come, she who they say was the mother 
of a man who never saw her, — it was she who 
led her kinswoman, her representative, into 
our hearts. 


My father recovered after a few days : he 
had taken cold, it was said, the day before ; 
and naturally, at seventy, a small matter is 

II 


i 62 


THE PORTRAIT. 


enough to upset the balance even of a strong 
man. He got quite well ; but he was willing 
enough afterwards to leave the management of 
that ticklish kind of property which involves 
human well-being in my hands, who could move 
about more freely, and see with my own eyes 
how things were going on. He liked home 
better, and had more pleasure in his personal 
existence in the end of his life. Agnes is now 
my wife, as he had, of course, foreseen. It was 
not merely the disinclination to receive her 
father’s daughter, or to take upon him a new 
responsibility, that had moved him, to do him 
justice ; but both these motives had told 
strongly. I have never been told, and now will 
never be told, what his griefs against my moth- 
er’s family, and specially against that cousin, 
had been ; but that he had been very deter- 
mined, deeply prejudiced, there can be no doubt. 
It turned out after, that the first occasion on 
which I had been mysteriously commissioned to 
him with a message which I did not understand, 
and which for that time he did not understand, 
was the evening of the day on which he had 
received the dead man’s letter, appealing to 
him — to him, a man whom he had wronged 
— on behalf of the child who was about to be 


THE PORTRAIT. 


163 

left friendless in the world. The second time, 
further letters — from the nurse who was the 
only guardian of the orphan, and the chaplain 
of the place where her father had died, taking 
it for granted that my father’s house was her 
natural refuge — had been received. The 
third I have already described, and its results. 

For a long time after, my mind was never 
without a lurking fear that the influence which 
had once taken possession of me might re- 
turn again. Why should I have feared to be 
influenced, to be the messenger of a blessed 
creature, whose wishes could be nothing but 
heavenly ? Who can say ? Flesh and blood 
is not made for such encounters : they were 
more than I could bear. But nothing of the 
kind has ever occurred again. 

Agnes had her peaceful domestic throne es- 
tablished under the picture. My father wished 
it to be so, and spent his evenings there in the 
warmth and light, instead of in the old library, 
— in the narrow circle cleared by our lamp out 
of the darkness, as long as he lived. It is 
supposed by strangers that the picture on the 
wall is that of my wife ; and I have always 
been glad that it should be so supposed. She 
who was my mother, who came back to me 


THE PORTRAIT. 


164 

and became as my soul for three strange mo- 
ments and no more, but with whom I can 
feel no credible relationship as she stands 
there, has retired for me into the tender re- 
gions of the unseen. She has passed once 
more into the secret company of those shad- 
ows, who can only become real in an atmos- 
phere fitted to modify and harmonize all 
differences, and make all wonders possible, — 
the light of the perfect day. 


THE END. 


University Press ; John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 



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